Collateral Damage
by WitchGirl
Summary: After being tortured and sexually assaulted, Greg and Sara find themselves growing much closer, which is not good news for Sara and Grissom's relationship. It's all a mess until a new criminal threatens to solve Sara's problem for her. Rated for a reason!
1. Grissom

Collateral Damage

**Summary:** Greg and Sara deal with the aftermaths of torture and sexual assault when a new criminal brings back old memories. Sequel to Slither but can be read independently.

**_Author's Note:_** While this is a sequel, it's fairly straight forward as a standalone. For more action, read Slither, for more angst, you've come to the right place.

* * *

Sara shined a flashlight down the manhole before covering her mouth and climbing down the ladder.

"Will you be OK down there?"

She rolled her eyes at Grissom's blatant concern and his underlying anxiety. "I'm fine!" she called up to him as she descended into to the sewers. She saw his head appear above her as she climbed down. Six months and he still wouldn't let her out of his sights. Sara shook her head. Normally, the argument was about who would stay above ground. Sara never thought she'd fight so hard for the right to spelunk the manmade tunnels of Las Vegas, but Grissom was still treating her like she was made of glass. Their argument had resulted in her shouting at him that she had half a mind to go get kidnapped again just to teach him a lesson. This had hurt him, visibly, and Sara was almost sorry for it, but she was frustrated. No matter how carefully he watched her, anything could happen. Even the best trained soldiers could trip over a plant root and crack their skull open without ever seeing battle.

So Grissom had relented and allowed Sara her adventure into the disgusting underbelly of the Las Vegas sewer system to retrieve a body some road workers had found down there earlier. Waving her flashlight around, she finally caught sight of a foot sticking out of the sewage and crouched down near it. She snapped a photograph and donned her gloves.

She lent over the edge, looking closer at the body, and noticed the parts that were visible didn't make sense, unless the body had a few broken bones. The leg (only one was visible) shot up straight out of the sewage like a flag pole at a ninety degree angle, but the arm was more awkward, sticking out at forty degrees, and facing away from Sara. Frowning, Sara grabbed the leg and pulled it toward her.

The arm didn't move.

Eventually, she found that she'd pulled the lower half of a male body out of the sludge, completely naked. She shivered as she fished out the arm, which she thanked God was attached to a torso, complete with head. The man had been severed clear through the stomach, but all other parts remained intact.

On a hunch, she walked down a ways, leaving the body behind, and knowing Grissom would lecture her for wandering away so far from her point of entry, and from him. But sure enough, she spotted them, also sticking out at odd angles. A hand. A toe. She photographed both and pulled them out and gasped to see that neither was connected to a leg or an arm. Unwilling to fish through the sewage and find more body parts on her own, Sara turned around and was about to call Grissom's name when she felt the cold steel barrel of a gun in the small of her back.

She had only one thought. _Great. Grissom will never let me live _this _down._

She tried to control her breathing, but the image of Ryan Woodward's feral eyes came to mind and tears streamed down her face. "Woodward… please…" she begged. "Answer the phone…"

The gun pressed further into her back. "What phone? Nyet, you be quiet, I just wanted to tell you how pretty you looked in this light."

Sara shivered. For one, the veiled insult was offensive as they were standing in the near-darkness of a sewer tunnel, the reek of unprocessed waste invading their nostrils. For another, it reminded Sara even more stiffly of Woodward who, before he had shot her, had told her how much she reminded him of his first girlfriend. Sara always wondered what had happened to the poor girl.

"What do you want?" she was able to get out.

"I want you to leave those bodies alone," he cooed into her ear, "and come with me. I'll show you how it's done." His breath, for she could smell its stench even through the reek of excrement, was strong with cheap vodka. He pushed her to turn around and they began walking deeper into the sewers.

"Freeze." The voice was low and cold as it from behind them and Sara nearly melted at its sound. The gun clattered to the floor. Sara did not relax, not even when Grissom spoke again. "Sara, come over here."

She swallowed hard and stepped to the left, turning around. She refused to look at the man who threatened her, but could see his silhouette and his hands were in the air. Her eyes on the floor, she moved towards Grissom. She made a move to go past him, but he caught her arm with his free hand, still aiming his gun at her assailant.

"Who are you?" Grissom demanded in frigid tones.

The crook began to laugh. He spoke with a foreign accent. It was the first time he sounded like anyone other than the Texan Ryan Woodward to Sara. "My name is Aleksandr Rubinoff. Friends call me Sasha."

"Mr. Rubinoff," Grissom called. "I want you to slowly climb that ladder over there. My colleague will be waiting there to arrest you. Do you understand?"

Aleksandr Rubinoff smirked. "Yes, oh wise police person," he sneered with more than a hint of contempt. Slowly, he walked past Grissom, flashing a hungry look at Sara who cowered away from him. Grissom pulled Sara close to him and continued to aim his gun at Aleksandr Rubinoff's back as he climbed the ladder. Sara could see Brass's shoes standing outside of the manhole. Once the attacker was out of sight and Sara and Grissom heard the clatter of handcuffs, Grissom finally holstered his gun and turned to Sara, taking her firmly by both shoulders as he forced her to look at him.

"Do you see?" he said. "_Never_ wander out of my sight like that, Sara."

In any other situation, she would have snapped back at his furious fear, but now, it simply reduced her to tears. She felt like a teenage girl who had been caught in a vicious lie by her worried father. Slowly, his anger with her dissolved and he wrapped his arms around her, hushing her as she wept.

She had promised herself six months ago that she would never again be a victim. She had intensified her self-defense training, and began working out every day. In addition to her gun, she carried a can of mace in her purse. But all of that was no match to a gun in her back, or in her gut for that matter, and the wound she had sustained in her stomach six months ago began to emanate a dull pain as she heaved sob after sob.

Grissom calmly stroke her hair as she clutched his shirt in her fists, angry with herself for breaking down like this in front of him. She'd never wept openly like this in front of him before. She had always trusted Grissom, but after Woodward, she had refused to continue to reach out to him. She had refused to reach out to anyone, in fact, and was perfectly content dealing with it on her own with her obsessive cleaning, until someone else reached out to her.

Sara vaguely thought that she was disappointed that it hadn't been Grissom. But he didn't know about the nightmares like Greg did. He didn't know about the screams that still echoed in her memory like a stereo blasting at full volume in the next room. And it wasn't Grissom's voice she heard but Greg's. His words played over and over again in her nightmares as Woodward violated her. They always sounded the same, always with ferocious intensity, but always meaningless in the end. _I won't let him hurt you_.

Contrarily, when Greg whispered a paraphrase of the words to her in her waking moments, when they lay together watching the sunset before going to work, they never ceased to calm her. _I will never let anyone hurt you again_.

They had never been more than friends, but Grissom's jealousy of their closeness, though minor, was still apparent, if only to Sara. He tried to mask it, and did it well in front of Greg, but when alone with Sara she saw the pain in his eyes. He wanted to be there for her like Greg was. He wanted to love her completely. And when there used to be a time when Sara might have let him, that time had come and passed.

She was damaged and confused and there were times when the only person in the world she was unafraid of was Greg Sanders. And their growing intimacy had been completely accidental. It wasn't like Sara had planned to get herself kidnapped with him. They suffered through a horrific and bloody event together, they were bound to have bonded. But Grissom acted as though Sara was pushing him away on purpose, and while that was somewhat true, Sara couldn't help herself. When he was finally trying to get close to her, she had stopped trying to get close to him.

Regardless of her misgivings, they were close now, at least physically, and Sara found that she didn't mind a bit. His embrace was warm and she found solace in it for the first time since the abduction. She let him hold her and almost wished he'd never let her go. And she knew that he wouldn't have either, not for a hundred years, if it weren't for the fact that they were standing underground in the Las Vegas sewer system. The thought disgusted her.

"Gil…" she whispered through her tears. "We should get back to work now."

"Are you ready?" he asked. "I mean, are you sure?"

Sara nodded and he kissed her hair before pulling away from her again. "We should keep processing the scene. Do our jobs."

Grissom agreed with a reassuring smile. "You're right," he said. "Of course, as usual."

She turned away from him and crouched near the male torso. She was shaking as she pushed the hair from his eyes. She felt Grissom's hand on her shoulder.

"I'll call Nick and Catherine in." He spoke softly, as though afraid that anything else would shatter her. "Let's go back."

Sara swallowed and nodded before rising to her feet and collecting her kit. Soon enough, they were going up the ladder into the familiar world above. She climbed up into the open air first, followed swiftly by Grissom. She rubbed her arms in the chilly night air as she waited. When he came up, he wrapped his arms around her from behind to warm her. She stiffened at his touch, reminded of Woodward holding a knife to her throat from behind, but as he kissed her cheek she relaxed slightly. She didn't much like being touched anymore by anyone, even Greg. While Greg seemed to acknowledge that, however, Grissom didn't seem to understand.

They drove back in silence. Grissom once mentioned that they'd each have to give a statement, and Sara just nodded in answer. Finally, Grissom spoke his mind.

"I'm scared for you, Sara."

"What do you mean?" she was genuinely confused at his words, though not particularly keen on discussing them.

"You refuse to see a psychiatrist," Grissom answered. "Even though Ecklie demanded it."

Sara looked at him in shock. "You lied for me," she whispered incredulously. "That's why he hasn't talked to me about it."

"Of course I lied for you," Grissom said quickly. "I don't want you to lose your job. I know you, Sara, you deal with things in your own way and your own time, but you have to realize that maybe Ecklie's advice wasn't so ill-intended. He's an asshole, and he wants to make sure no one sues us, but he's worried about you too."

"I can't talk to strangers like that, Grissom," Sara said. "You know that. You know me and strangers. The number of shrinks I ate up after my dad died, wow, I hated them so much. I have a pathological fear of psychiatrists, and the only people who are qualified to help me overcome that fear _are_ psychiatrists. Frankly, though, it's not exactly a phobia that interferes with my everyday life, so I'm not too desperate to cure it."

Grissom nodded. "OK, I understand."

"You don't," Sara said flatly. "And not for lack of trying, either, but you just…"

"What are you trying to say here, Sara?" Grissom asked. "That I don't know you anymore?"

"I bet the thought has crossed your mind," Sara said. "I don't think that _you_ think you know me anymore."

"Do I?" he asked.

Sara folded her arms in an unconscious defensive reaction. "I think you do. I think you try with all your heart to know me."

"Then why do you keep pushing me away?" he asked her.

"You hate talking about this kind of thing."

"I know I do," Grissom replied. "But these things… sometimes need to be talked about."

"Emotionless Gil Grissom wants to talk about feelings," Sara said snidely. "What a shock."

He stopped the car in the middle of a one-way street and looked at her as he blocked the road for a few angry drivers behind him. "I am not a corpse, Sara," he whispered calmly. "Just because I don't like to show it so often doesn't mean I don't have _feelings_. Is that what you think about me? Is that why you're pushing me away?"

"Grissom, start the car," Sara said, exasperated.

"No," Grissom said, his voice rising. "I love you, Sara. I trust you with all my heart. You used to trust me. What happened to that?"

Sara stared down at her knees. "I don't know, Gil…"

Grissom sighed and started to drive again. "I really wish you'd talk to me again, Sara. I'm… sorry, if I've done anything to upset you."

Sara shook her head. "You're just not good with people, Grissom. I know that."

"I'm good with you."

She looked up at him, but his eyes remained on the road. She thought of saying something, but didn't know what to say to him. So they sat in silence once more until they pulled up in front of the crime lab and slowly got out of the car. 


	2. Sara

_**Author's Note:**_ This story began somewhere and ended up somewhere completely different... I'm doing heavy editting... might not post daily, but I'll still be pretty quick. Spring break is over, too... less time to write... but hang in there, I like this story. Also, it'll probably be longer than I'm used to doing... It's turned into this rollercoaster, even I don't know where or how it ends anymore. I've been toying the character death, or with different pairings, or with some pretty far out stuff. I've decided to hold a mini-contest: Whatever reviewer can come up with the most ludicrous scenario that works with this story, and I use it, I will dedicate this story to them. Oh, and please review... My hit count for Slither was hella high, but I got more reviews for a story with fewer hit points. Just me complaining. To those of you who do, you're so awesome.

* * *

When they entered the building, Greg was the first one they saw. He was leaning against the wall looking tense with his hands under his arms. The moment he saw them, he was walking swiftly down the hall, fear scribbled across his features as he took Sara's hands in his. 

"I just heard," he said, his brown eyes wide and deep as they bored into hers. "Are you alright?"

Sara pulled her hands away from him and looked down. "I'm fine," she mumbled.

Greg looked about to speak, then looked down at his own hands and shoved them in his pockets. "I'm glad."

Sara looked up at him and smiled a silent thank-you.

"We should see Brass," Grissom said, looking from Greg to Sara. "He'll want to talk to you."

"He's in with your perp. Room 103," Greg told them. "You think he killed those people?"

"We don't know, Greg." Grissom's voice was calm, but Sara knew better and her eyes glanced at him fleetingly.

"He talked the talk," Sara said with a shrug. "I think so."

"Where's Nick and Catherine?" Grissom asked.

"They left as soon as they got your call," Greg replied. "About ten minutes ago."

"Good," Grissom said. "Don't you and Warrick have a case?"

"Uh, yeah," Greg said. "But we're waiting on some results and he—"

"It was a double homicide, you have to have _something_ you should be doing," Grissom interrupted.

Greg looked about to protest when he nodded. "You're right, actually, I just got an idea." He looked at Sara. "I'll call you later, OK?"

She nodded and he turned around and walked swiftly in the opposite direction. Grissom tilted his head as he watched him go. "He still limps."

"I beg your pardon?" said Sara.

"Greg," Grissom muttered. "When he runs, he does this little skipping motion, and when he walks like that, he tries to keep the weight off the balls of his feet… His feet still bother him."

"Yours would too," Sara told him, "if you had them nearly frozen straight off."

Grissom shivered involuntarily before making for the interview rooms. Sara followed close on his heals.

"Why don't you talk to Greg about it?" she asked him. "You're so worried about me all the time, why aren't you worried about him?"

Grissom bit his lip. "I worry about Greg everyday," he told her. "Why do you think I know so thoroughly the way he walks? It's just… It's like you said, Sara. I'm not good with people."

They walked into the interview room and watched Brass and the suspect from behind the mirror.

"What is you're real name, Mr. Rubinoff?" Brass asked as he glared at him.

"I have told you," the suspect replied. "Call me Sasha."

"Your _last_ name, if you would be so kind," Brass said scathingly.

"Rubinoff."

Brass sighed. "Rubinoff is the brand of vodka in the flask we found on your person."

"And you assume that it couldn't be possible that it is also my last name?" the suspect sneered. "It is popular in my country."

"And just what _is_ your country?" Brass asked.

" Russia."

"Of course. You're Russian." Brass still sounded like he didn't believe him. "And when we run your prints and find out you were born and raised in Carson City, you'll be singing a different tune, won't you Sasha?"

"You doubt my accent, don't you?" the man, Sasha asked. "It is only because I have lived in this country for so long. It begins to fail me."

Brass wrote something down on the piece of paper and pushed it over to Sasha. It read "Вы врушка."

Sasha read it and laughed. "What is this supposed to mean?"

"It means I think you're full of shit," Brass replied.

"You are more polite in your Russian than you are in your English, Mr. Brass," said Sasha.

"_Pizdobol_," Brass hissed and Sasha laughed even harder.

"I stand corrected," he replied calmly. "You are just as rude in Russian as you are in English. I am impressed at your knowledge of our insults. Where did you study, sir, your accent is… difficult to place."

"College," he replied flatly. " New York."

"Ah," said Sasha, leaning back in his chair in understanding. "Yes, I hear the slight slur of the 'oh,' like you New Yorkers tend to do with your English. Tell me, Detective, do you use your Russian often?"

"Why don't you tell _me_ what you were doing down in those sewers threatening a CSI?" Brass demanded.

"I was not threatening, merely trying to explain myself," said Sasha, his arms wide open in a casual gesture of relaxedness. "She was curious of the bodies, so I offered to show her how it was done."

"You held a gun to her back," Brass said. "That sounds like a threat to me."

Sasha shrugged it off. "In my country, it is simply like… a greeting."

"So you did it? You killed those people?" Brass said.

"Of course I did it," he replied. "All your detecting skills and you just discover this. Even the KGB were quicker than you."

Brass tightened his fists and Grissom and Sara could both tell that it was all he could do not to smack this guy across the face. Grissom almost wanted to do the same.

"So…" said Brass, his voice low and quiet. "You dismembered these bodies and just waited around for someone to find them? What kind of killer does that?"

"A polite one," Sasha replied.

Jacqui entered the room slowly with some papers in her hands and Sara and Grissom both turned to look at her. She pointed at the documents. "Your perp," she said. "Dr. Aleksandr Volkov. He came over here on a student visa for college when he was eighteen and ended up applying for citizenship which is why he's on file."

"Let me guess," Sara said. "He went to medical school."

"No," Jacqui shook her head. "He has a doctorate in European and American History."

Grissom took the file and looked at it thoroughly for a moment before he walked right into the interview room and Sasha looked up at him.

"Aha, Mr. Police Man, how are you?"

"Shut it, Mr. Volkov," Grissom snapped. "You didn't kill those people."

"And why do you assume this?" Sasha asked.

"A hunch," Grissom admitted.

"Does that count as evidence in this country? A hunch?" Sasha looked from Grissom to Brass, amused.

"Gil, could I talk to you outside?" Brass asked sharply.

Grissom nodded and Brass took him out to behind the glass. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing there, Grissom?"

Jacqui handed Brass the documents. "Your suspect is a legal immigrant. Doctor in history."

Brass looked at the papers, then up at Grissom again. "And since he's a historian he can't kill people?"

"I'll be honest," said Grissom. "I didn't get as good a look at those bodies as I should have, but I can bet you dollars to donuts when Nick and Catherine get back they'll tell you that they were surgically dismembered. A _doctor_ did these murders, not a historian. Besides, I think he's a pathological liar."

Brass flipped through the folder. "Prior confessions…" he muttered. "Different murders in different cities with different MOs… San Jose, Houston, Albuquerque… This guy's been trailing killers like we have."

"But he's been cleared every time," Grissom said. "Even with his confessions, none of the evidence lined up. He had unintentional alibis. Like stores would have him on tape at the time of the murders, or waiters at restaurants would remember him leaving a big tip. On top of that, there was a lack of motive, alien fingerprints, not a scrap of his DNA at the scene but foreign DNA was present. Either he's really good at covering his tracks, which doesn't make sense because he always turns himself in, or he's a compulsive confessor."

Brass rubbed his eyes with his hands. "Why wasn't this guy put away before for obstruction of justice?"

"He paid the fines," Jacqui said. "Or the bail. He always met it, every time. This guy is _loaded_."

"Where did he get all his money from?" Brass asked. Jacqui shrugged. "Great. We have a wannabe in custody."

"Not exactly," Grissom said. "He did hold Sara at gunpoint."

"Right," said Brass. "At least I can keep him on that." He turned to Sara. "But we'll need your statement." Sara nodded slowly. "Would you mind speaking with Sofia? I'm going to be tied up here." Again, Sara nodded. "Alright, I think she's dealing with a hit-and-run, but that was last I heard an hour ago…"

Sara nodded again and smiled at Brass. "Thanks, I'll find her."

Brass put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she answered. "And I really wish everyone would stop asking me that." She glanced sidelong at Grissom, who avoided her gaze. "Talk to Volkov," Sara said. "Make sure he stays locked up."

She left quickly, before anyone could say anything else to her. Her mind was a flurry of thoughts as she made her way down the hallway, pulling out her phone and calling the first number that came to mind.

"What's wrong?" This was the normal greeting he spurted whenever he found her calling.

"Everything." And this was her normal reply.

He chuckled lightly. "You want to get out of here?"

"Desperately."

"I'll meet you at reception."

"I need to talk to Sofia," she told him.

"You need to or you have to?"

"Both."

"Alright. Then I'll meet you at reception in twenty minutes. That enough time?"

Sara nodded habitually before answering. "Yes."

"OK, Sara," he said. "I'll see you soon."

With a quick goodbye she hung up and dialed Sofia's number. She answered swiftly. "Curtis."

" Sofia," Sara whispered. "I need to give a statement concerning a hold up."

"Oh right…" Sofia muttered. "Yeah, I heard about that, Brass said you might need me. I'm in 106."

Sara hung up and made her way instantly to the room to see Sofia. She spoke in a very detached manner. She told her everything from descending into the sewers to ascending back up above ground. Sasha Volkov's words rang in her skull and she reiterated them verbatim for Sofia. When she was done, she nodded and left. She leaned against the door, breathing hard as she stared at the ceiling.

She didn't understand why she was being so stupid. Aleksandr "Sasha" Volkov was pretty much harmless. He didn't commit any of the murders they were looking at, and he probably had never killed anyone before in his life. But the gun in her back and his breath on her neck had brought back too many violent memories of a man who _had_ hurt her, who had scarred her intimately. Memories she had tried to bury and ignore, which only surfaced in her nightmares and only dissipated when she was reassured by Greg's warm embrace.

She wondered if she should be bothered by the fact that it was Greg's touch that soothed her more than Grissom's. In a time when too few people could touch her without her flinching, she wondered why it was a friend's touch, and not that of a lover's, which chased away her demons.

Of course, the criminalist side of her kicked in to answer that. Rape victims often had problems with lovers after the event, and even platonic relationships could suffer. But she wasn't a rape victim. Not that she remembered. Or had she blocked out that part of the attack in order to spare herself? She had told them not to run an SAE kit, that it was unnecessary not just because she hadn't been raped, but because even if she had they'd shot and killed the man who'd done it already.

But even death couldn't stop Ryan Woodward. In her nightmares, he violated her again and again until she could no longer differentiate dream from memory. There were things in her dreams that she knew couldn't have possibly happened, like when he murdered Greg over and over again before her eyes. Every time she awoke again he was always alive, and every time she saw his deep brown eyes she always said a silent prayer to a God she still didn't think existed.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh and she jumped before answering it. It seemed that everything reminded her of Ryan Woodward. She resolved to turn the vibrate option off on her phone, or at least no longer keep it in her front pocket. She answered, sounding exhausted.

"Sidle."

"Sara? Where are you?"

Sara glanced down at her watch and cursed out loud. She was supposed to have met up with Greg ten minutes ago. "Aw, I'm sorry… I didn't realize I'd been so long. Just kinda got lost in my thoughts you know?"

"It's all good," Greg said, sounding lighthearted. "Ready to punch out?"

"Can we go somewhere?" Sara asked. "And not go home?"

"It's three AM," Greg said. "For us, the night's still young. Of course we can."

"Are you done with your case?" Sara asked.

"Do you really want to know the answer to that?"

"Greg," Sara scolded. "You can't leave Warrick hanging like that."

"He says he's got it," Greg replied. "And besides. You need me."

Sara had to admit that it was cute the way he'd drop everything when she needed him. It was also annoying. "Greg, I don't need you bad enough to have you risk your job."

"Bah," Greg said dismissively. "No risk. We were nearly done anyway. Ah, there you are."

"What?" But even as she said it, Sara turned to her left and there was Greg, grinning at her from the other end of the hall. He hung up and jogged over to her. Watching him, Sara noted that Grissom had been right. Greg did jog with a sort of stiff limp.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked with a mischievous smirk.

"Anywhere I can get drunk," Sara replied.

Greg's smile faded slightly. "Are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine," Sara interrupted immediately. "Are you?"

Greg's smile strengthened again and he looked about to reply in the affirmative when he stopped himself. "Not exactly."

Sara sighed with relief. "Good," she said. "Because I lied."

"Well if you're getting drunk," Greg said. "Then I have to drive."

"We can order a cab," Sara suggested.

"Let's pick up some tequila and hit the strip," he said gleefully. "We can make fun of all the tourists who lost all their money on the slots."

Sara was glad to see him smile. "It's a date."

* * *

Russian Translation: The written note Brass passes to Sasha reads "You're a liar." The insult Brass shouts at Sasha translates roughly to "Fucking liar." In case y'all were curious. 


	3. Greg

_**Author's Note:**_ I actually have nothing to say to you guys (except thanks for reading!) but it felt awkward not leaving an author's note... Enjoy the chapter. :o)

* * *

They both bought their own bottle of Jose Cuervo and headed out to the desert where they laid out a blanket on the dry dirt and faced east, drinking and laughing until the sun came up. 

Sara enjoyed the time she spent with Greg because she felt completely at ease with him. When she was with Grissom, she always worried that she was making him unhappy with the eccentric way she didn't want to be touched. But Greg rarely reached out to touch her, unless she touched him first, and Sara appreciated that. Even as they lay there on the blanket together, they were still a good few inches apart, and Greg didn't reach out to hold her hand like Grissom might have. He was content just to lay there, with her. And he didn't ask her any unwanted questions.

When they lay together after a shift, Grissom always asked her questions. He continually asked if she was OK for one. He wanted her to talk to him about what happened when all she wanted to do was sleep, or talk about something else, or not talk at all. With Greg, she was free to do whatever she wanted and not feel guilty about it. She had no obligation to him. He didn't want anything from her. And Sara liked that about Greg.

"I still say we should have hit the strip," Greg said, taking a swig directly out of the bottle.

"Too many people," Sara replied. "I much prefer the quiet."

"It's your night," Greg told her with a shrug. "Stars are bright tonight."

"They won't be for long. Sunrise should start soon."

"How's that tequila working for you?" Greg asked.

"Not a bit," she answered. "I think we got gypped."

"I'm pleasantly happy," Greg replied, sitting up on his forearms.

Sara cocked an eyebrow at him, turning onto her side and propped her head up with her elbow. "Happy?"

"Somewhere between tipsy and drunk," he explained matter-of-factly.

"Of course," Sara said with a light laugh. "I always wondered what to call that phase."

"Happy," Greg responded. "Because it's that perfect balance where everything is perfect and you don't wake up with a hangover in the morning."

Sara looked at his arms. They were littered with scars from where Woodward had made small incisions. His hands were covered in new skin, which was a slightly lighter color than the rest of his arms. They were a little rough, but otherwise they were much more clean-looking than the rest of him. Woodward had burned his skin clear off with the lye, and Sara remembered the chemical burns vividly, which had made Greg's fingers swell with blisters. They had been red and raw, and for weeks he had worn bandages around them after the dead skin was peeled off. Now, they were more or less healed, but the white scars on his arms wouldn't be so accommodating. They would remain there for years. Sara briefly wondered about the burns Greg had suffered on his chest and whether or not they had healed yet. While her damage was mostly internal, he wore his scars like he wore his emotions, right there out on his sleeve. She got all the questions, but he got all the stares.

"Your nose looks normal," Sara commented.

Greg gave her a skeptical look. "Normal?"

"I mean, since it was broken and all, it looks pretty normal considering."

"Thank you…?"

"You're welcome." Sara flashed him an exaggerated grin. She reached out and stroked his hand. He watched her. "Your hand is soft now."

"Not like four months ago when it felt like reptile skin," Greg said at an attempt at a joke.

Sara moved her hand to her stomach and let it rest there as she stared at it. Slowly and tentatively, Greg reached out to her, and put his hand on top of hers.

"How does it feel?" he asked.

Sara sighed. "It's healed fine," she answered. "I mean, it's sore sometimes, like when I cry, or when I laugh really hard, or when I wake up from one of my dreams…"

"You still have those, eh?" Greg muttered.

"Not so much when I fall asleep with you," Sara admitted.

Greg smiled. "Me too."

Sara sat up on her knees and took Greg's hand in hers. "Do you want to see it?"

Greg looked doubtful as he sat up. "Sara…"

"No, it's OK," Sara reassured him as she lifted up her shirt just a little bit to reveal a small purple circle on her side with minimal bruising around it. Greg reached out, but then withdrew his hand. "No," she said. "Go ahead."

But Greg shook his head. Instead, he pulled off his shirt to reveal his own battle scars. Among the white and yellow scars from burns and cuts, there was a similar wound on his left shoulder.

"That's your exit wound, if I recall," he said. "While he left me a souvenir."

Sara nodded and twisted a little to show the entry wound on her back. "How amazing is it that two potentially fatal shots didn't puncture any organs? For you, just inches lower and he might have hit your heart, for me just inches to my left and he could have hit my stomach."

"It's because I'm all muscle," Greg quipped proudly.

Sara hit his arm. "Oh, you."

"You only hit me because you know it's true," he said smugly.

"Stop," she said playfully as she pushed his unwounded shoulder. Her hand lingered there for a moment and she looked at it, wondering at the taboo thoughts that were racing through her mind. She looked up at Greg to see that he was looking back at her, his smile slowly fading. She thought about speaking, but felt that words were pointless. She remembered that her hand was still on Greg's shoulder and she withdrew it instantly, looking away from him.

"I— I'm sorry…" she muttered bashfully as she stared at the blanket.

Greg bent his head forward to try and catch her eye. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear before tilting her chin up and smiling at her. "Hey," he said. "You have nothing to apologize for."

She looked up at him, flushed and unprepared as she put her hand over his on her cheek. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're worth it," he replied. "And besides, did you ever think for a moment that maybe spending time with you made _me_ feel better too?"

She reached out with a smile and stroked his upper arm while his hand remained on her cheek. He was watching her again, waiting for her to move. But she hesitated again, knowing that whatever she did next could change everything forever.

Slowly, she leant towards him and kissed him softly. He returned it, equally gentle, as his hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, his fingers lightly tickling her there. She moved closer to him and they laid back down on the blanket, together, as the first lazy fingers of sunrise crept over the horizon.

* * *

Greg lay on the blanket with his hands behind his head as he stared up at the morning blue sky. If it weren't for the beautiful vision lying next to him, he would have been certain the whole night had been a dream. And maybe he was still asleep, but if that was the case then he refused to wake up. There were, of course, still complications, if this was real. But so long as it was just a dream, just the two of them alone in the vast expanse of Nevada's dry lands, then they were safe, and they were sound, and they would remain that way in his mind forever. 

She was the best choice he had ever made, and the worst at the same time. For now that they'd had their tryst, they risked losing everything. It was true, she risked more than he did, but both of them had a lot to lose. But the last thing he wanted to lose was her. He looked over at her as she pulled the jacket he'd given her up around her, his bare chest moving up and down with his breathing. It was still battered and worn, but he had never felt so alive as he did in that moment, with her, the scent of strawberries driving him wild.

"What are we going to do?" he whispered, as though he were asking what she wanted for breakfast.

She shivered under the jacket and licked her lips. "We do nothing."

"Sara…"

"Greg," she interrupted quickly, turning on her side to face him. "You don't understand. Grissom and I, we've been distant ever since… the abduction… and we haven't… I mean, I haven't let him…"

Greg sat up. "Oh God…" he whispered. "You two haven't slept together in six months?!"

Sara closed her eyes, looking embarrassed as she took a deep breath and nodded.

Greg buried his face in his hands. "Oh damn… this is bad. This is bad, bad, bad. I mean, I knew it was bad before, but this is _so_ much worse." He looked up at her, his eyes searching. "Never. _Never_. Not _once_?"

Sara shook her head, looking sheepish. "Not once."

Greg fell back down on the blanket and stared up at the sky. "That means that this was …"

"Yes," Sara replied before he could finish.

"And we…"

"Yes."

"Shit."

"Yes."

Both of them kept to themselves for a moment. She traced circles on the blanket while he made shapes out of the clouds. Each tried to make sense of the situation that was laid out before them, each realizing that they had both made a terrible mistake. He had wanted this. They had both _wanted_ this. But of course, that made sense, because if they hadn't wanted it, it wouldn't have happened at all. It _shouldn't_ have ever happened at all. But it did happen, because they wanted it to happen, and now they were stuck, faced with consequences they hadn't thought about at the time, and all sorts of problems they _didn't_ want to happen.

_Life really is a bitch sometimes_, Greg thought to himself. "You know, we have to tell him."

"We'll do no such thing," Sara said promptly.

"He deserves to know," Greg told her. "You owe him that."

"I owe him that and so much more, but we're still not going to tell him," Sara replied, her brown eyes wide.

"Why?"

"I can't…" Sara shook her head. "I just can't hurt him any more than I already have."

"I can't do this," Greg said, sitting up again and putting on his shirt.

"Where are you going?" Sara asked, sitting up with him.

"Home," he said. "I'll drop you off at your apartment so we can both get some sleep."

"What about the alcohol?" Sara asked, responsibly.

He gave her a jadedly wry look. "I think we've burned _that_ off by now."

She nodded. "And then?"

Greg bit his lip. It was hard for him to say, but he had to do it. It was the right thing to do, under the circumstances. He had to grow up and stop living in this dream. "And then we'll go to work tonight, and we'll get a few cases, and we'll work them, and act like none of this ever happened."

Sara took his hands in hers, trying to make him look her in the eye. "But it _did_ happen, Greg."

"Grissom doesn't know that," Greg said, yanking his hands away. "And if you don't want to tell him, then it never happened. I can't do this, Sara. I'm not going to run around behind his back with _his _girl and hurt him like that, _no_, Sara. I can't, I just…" He swallowed the lump in his throat. This was harder than he ever thought it would be. "He's Grissom, Sara. I respect him _way_ too much to stab him in the back like that. I've never lied to him before. Ever. I wouldn't be able to stand it."

"You'll have to lie to him now whether you like it or not," Sara pointed out. "Because even if you _say_ it didn't happen, it still _did_. And _that's_ a lie, Greg, or do I need to get you a dictionary to prove it?"

Greg ran a hand through his hair as he shook his head. "What do you want from me, Sara? Do you want me to tell you to leave him? To come and be with me instead? Because I'm not going to say that. I love you both too much to tear you apart." He took her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. "This was nothing. What you and Grissom had, it's beautiful, and it's love, and you'd be an idiot to throw that away."

Sara shrugged his hands off her shoulders. "You don't know _what_ Grissom and I have. Hell, _I_ don't even know anymore. Maybe it's love, maybe it's camaraderie, maybe we're perfect strangers now. But I don't need _you_ telling me what it is. What's between me and Grissom is between me and Grissom, and what's between me and you is—"

"Over," Greg interrupted.

Sara blanched. "Not completely?" Her question was fearful, not curious.

Greg bit his lip hard to fight back tears. His eyes were stone cold as he nodded. "It has to be, Sara. Don't you get it? I don't want to ruin your life and all the good things you have. I can't be around you without wanting to breathe in your strawberry hair, without wanting to hold you and keep you safe, without wanting to tell you how much I…" He swallowed and shook his head out. "No. I just can't be around you without something like… like _this_ happening. And so long as you're with Grissom, that can never be. I won't hurt him Sara. I won't hurt him, and I won't hurt you."

"But you're already hurting me," Sara said, her voice barely a whisper as she stepped away from him. The tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes.

"And if we keep this up," Greg said sadly, "we'll be hurting Grissom even more."

"No…" Sara said, shaking her head slowly. "No, Grissom could _never_ hurt more than I do right now, Greg. Greg… I… I _need_ you. I don't want to lose you. Not now, not yet. Please."

Greg took her hands in his and brought them to his lips, kissing them gently. "Sara… There's no one in the world I respect more than Gil Grissom. And there's no one in the universe that I love more than you."

Sara stood there, stunned, as he turned away from her and made his way to the Denali. It took her a few moments to recover movement in her legs and she sprinted after him. "Greg!"

He stopped at the driver's side door and turned to her, his face impassive. "No, Sara. There's nothing you can say. For seven years, I've wanted to say that to you, and now that I have, there's nothing left to be said."

Sara stopped, stumped. "You don't even want to hear what I have to say?"

"No."

She shifted her weight onto one foot and put a hand on her hip. "That's rather selfish, wouldn't you say?"

He grinned at her as he shook his head. "Yeah, it is. But I can't help it. I don't want to hear it, Sara. I don't need to know." He turned back to the car and opened the door.

"Not even if it's 'I love you too?'"

Greg's back stiffened as he hesitated before climbing into the driver's seat. "Not even," he replied.

Obviously annoyed, Sara marched over to the opposite side, opened the door and slammed it shut. She folded her arms as Greg drove and said nothing to him throughout the entire drive. Greg pulled up outside her apartment and cast her a furtive glance.

"See you tonight," he said.

Sara opened the door without saying a word and closed it before walking over to her apartment. Greg sighed as he rested his head against the wheel. He _had_ told her he wasn't interested in what she had to say. He should have expected this from her. He stayed there a moment, not really wanting to go home, as he contemplated his situation. She was right. Whether he wanted to or not, he now had to lie to Grissom. And he wanted to confess so badly, but he wouldn't if Sara didn't want to.

Suddenly, his door opened and Greg sat up, confused. He didn't even have time to wonder at Sara's return before she grabbed him by his shirt and kissed him fiercely. He wrapped his arms around her and reveled in her closeness for a moment before he remembered how wrong they were acting and pushed her away. It was then that he saw her eyes were full of tears as she slowly shook her head at him.

"I haven't had a kiss like that in six months," she told him honestly. "I haven't had a friend like you in my entire life. I've been petrified of getting close to anyone. Except when I'm with you. I'm not going to let you go without a fight."

"Sara—"

"And if that kiss didn't say 'I love you' louder and clearer than my words could ever shout it in your ear, then I swear to God, Greg, you will never hear those words from me again."

Greg paused a moment as his whole body shook with his love for her at that moment. He knew he was risking everything. He knew someone was going to get hurt. He knew they would all end up getting hurt. He knew they were making a huge mistake. And still, he reached out and cradled her cheek, shaking his head. He knew everything, and he kissed her anyway.

She pulled him out of the car, still kissing him, and he kicked it shut with his foot. He followed her to her apartment door where she fumbled with her keys before pushing it open. They disappeared in the elevator, bathing in each other's closeness, glad to finally feel warmth again. He'd lost a part of himself somewhere deep inside of her the moment they'd met and he was still looking for it in her eyes. She consumed him. He felt her chest heave as she pressed herself against him as their tongues danced to the rhythm of the blood pounding in their veins.

The elevator came to a stop and she absentmindedly made her way to the apartment. Everything they were doing was strictly forbidden, but that hadn't stopped them from doing it before. As they stumbled into the apartment, Greg found himself falling backwards onto the couch and Sara laughed as she tumbled on top of him. She propped herself up and looked down at him, her hair dangling around her face and tickling his nose as she kept giggling.

"I love you…" she whispered.

He took her hair and pushed it behind her ear so he could see her beautiful brown eyes better. "I love you too," he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her and she bowed her head into another kiss. This one, unlike the hungry ones in the elevator, was soft and sweet and left her taste lingering on Greg's lips as she pulled away again and smiled at him. Greg licked his lips, drinking her in.

"You taste like cinnamon," he observed.

She reached into her pocket and waved a pack of Big Red gum at him. "Bad habit."

He kissed her again. "Mm, not at all."

Sara tossed the gum aside as she fell into his kiss, and slowly and steadily they forgot about their risks and lost themselves in the moment. There was no world outside of the apartment, and when it came into existence again, no one would ever know what happened there. Naught but the two of them, and the two of them alone…


	4. Consequences

_**Author's Note:**_ This chapter marks the last of focusing on the romance problem and the next brings about a whole new one which is more action/adventure-y. I wrote a very dark turning point yesterday which really merrits this fic's M-rating... probably the most deserving of an M-rating that I'd ever written... And then I wrote myself into a corner I can't get out of. Hopefully, it won't effect posting. So I'm going to a Brand New concert tonight. I expect reviews by the time I get back. ;o) As usual, my incentive is that I'll check out your stuff to return the favor. :o)

* * *

"How did you sleep?" 

Sara jumped at the question and exhaled sharply, sending fingerprint dust everywhere. She sighed as she re-dusted the surface.

"I didn't mean to startle you," said Grissom, coming up behind her and watching her work. "You just look tired is all. Did you go straight home when you left early yesterday or did you go out?"

"Uh…" Sara thought quickly. "I went out," she answered. "With Greg. We talked."

"Ah." Grissom didn't sound surprised. "You _did_ sleep, though? I didn't bother you yesterday because I wanted you to get some rest."

Sara turned and smiled at him, taking his hand and swinging it like a little girl might do. "And thank you, for giving me some space. I really appreciate that." She pecked him on the cheek.

"Sleep?" Grissom pressed.

Sara swallowed. "Yeah, I got a couple of hours in."

Grissom smiled. "Good," he said. "You need it."

Sara returned the smile and turned back to the sink. The smile quickly faded as she continued to work.

"What's wrong?" Grissom asked.

"Nothing," Sara replied, trying to sound cheery.

"You stopped smiling," Grissom noted. Sara looked up and wanted to hit herself for not remembering that there was a mirror above the bathroom sink. Of course, that made sense to any logical thinking person who had gotten their eight hours of sleep, which Sara clearly had not.

"You're right," Sara replied. "I didn't get much sleep. I'm tired. That's all." She looked at his reflection in the mirror. "You, uh, want to get dinner after this? Italian or something? I could really go for some bruschette."

"Sure," Grissom said after a beat. "I'd like that."

Sara nodded, giving him another smile, this time a real one. "Me too." It was probably the first thing she'd said to him that wasn't a lie all night. She hated herself for that.

* * *

After dinner, Grissom and Sara returned to the lab. They'd parted ways, each having to run the evidence they'd found, and Sara was walking down the hall when Greg jumped out at her from a nearby conference room and she dropped the files she was carrying. 

"Jesus, Greg!" she hissed, annoyed. "Don't _do_ that!"

"Sorry…" he said, stooping down to pick up the papers. "But I really need to talk to you. Inside?" He nodded at the conference room he'd just come out of and Sara cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Fine," she said. "So long as you promise to _never_ do that again."

He agreed, snatching the last of her papers before straightening up again and handing them to her. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against it. "I've been avoiding Grissom all day," he said. "And Sara, I really _really_ can't do this."

"I know…" Sara said, closing her eyes and falling into a nearby chair. "I can't _stand_ adultery. It's treacherous and selfish and completely unnecessary—"

"So I have a solution," Greg interrupted. "We tell him what happened, admit it was a fluke, beg for forgiveness and assure him it'll never happen again. We can do it together, stand by each other, it'll be good for everyone."

"It will be _bad_ for everyone," Sara corrected. "Remember how I told you that it took us so long to trust each other? There is no one in the _world_ he trusts more than me. Do you know what a blow this will be to him? Greg, I can't _tell_ him."

"Then let's stop it _right now_," Greg insisted.

Sara shook her head, skeptically. "You said the same thing yesterday and look how _that_ turned out."

"An accident," Greg said.

"Two fluke accidents in a row?" Sara said.

"OK, so it was a doubley _bad_ accident," Greg admitted. "But it was one crazy night, we were both a little drunk—"

"Not the second time," Sara reminded him.

Greg winced as though she'd punched him hard in the arm. "Yeah, well, the second time was consolation sex."

"Explain that concept to me," Sara said, as though she were interviewing a suspect.

"Consolation sex is what happens when two people are feeling miserable for a past transgression and so they help each other feel better by sleeping together," Greg explained.

"Only our past transgression _was_ sleeping together," Sara answered.

"Regardless," Greg said, waving away her argument with his hand. "It all happened within a few crazy hours so therefore only counts as one mistake. Thus, it is not an _affair_, merely an error in judgment."

"And what exactly is required to make it an affair?" Sara inquired.

"If you and I had sex on this conference table right now," Greg replied quickly. "See because now it's a brand new day, twenty-four hours later, and it would have happened again. It's a twenty-four hour rule, you see." Sara looked at the table then at Greg and his eyes grew wide. "Oh God…" he said. "You don't want to have sex on the conference table, do you?"

But Sara shook her head vehemently. "_No_," she insisted. "No, no, _no_, and for _so _many reasons, but especially because that would make it an affair and totally wrong and we'd just have one other thing to explain to Grissom when we finally come clean."

"Damn," Greg said, his shoulders slumping. "Because I kinda wanted to."

Sara flashed him an annoyed look. "See, it's talk like that which gets us into trouble."

"You said 'when we finally come clean,'" Greg pointed out. "Does that mean you're considering telling him?"

"I don't know…" Sara replied. "I used to tell Grissom everything, until…"

"Until Woodward."

The name, when said aloud, was like listening to the high pitched wails of cats when one's trying to sleep. It was unwanted and unhelpful, and put Sara in a miserable mood. "Yes," she said nonetheless. "Until… the abduction."

"Then you told _me_ everything," Greg said.

"Yes."

"So now we're in this mess."

"Yes."

Greg sighed. "But at least we're in it together."

"Yes." Sara wondered if there were any other words in her vocabulary anymore

"Just like last time."

She didn't agree with him now. Thinking about 'last time' was still too much for her. "I'm sorry, Greg."

He blinked at her. "What? Why?"

"For getting you involved in this," Sara replied with a sigh. "_All_ of this. Six months ago, I mean, you weren't even supposed to _be_ on that case, Grissom was supposed to…"

Greg approached her and stroked her hair lovingly. "Sara," he said. "None of this is your fault. It's not your fault what he did to us and it's not your fault for feeling the way you do."

"It's my fault I slept with you," she pointed out.

"And really," Greg said, "and I mean _honestly_, if Grissom wasn't involved at all, how much do you regret doing that?"

Sara tore her gaze away from him and swatted his hand away from her hair, suddenly feeling cold again. "I should never have done it…" she whispered, and Greg could hear the unshed tears in her voice. "I should never… Oh God, I feel so… _unclean_…" She began scratching at her arms, slowly at first, but then more fiercely and rapidly. Greg caught them and she looked up at him angrily, pulling her hands away from him as she jumped to her feet and backed away. "Don't _touch_ me."

Greg looked helpless. "Sara… Please, you're hurting yourself, stop it."  
Sara shook her head, her scratching continuing. The sound of it was like nails on a chalkboard to Greg's ears. "No, Greg, I'm sorry, I love you so much but everything I've done since the abduction is _wrong_, I've come out _wrong_ somehow and now all that I seem to be able to do is hurt people…"

"Including yourself," Greg said, beginning to panic. "Stop it, stop scratching yourself like that!" He noticed her nails began to draw red lines on her pale skin and he blanched. He stepped towards her again, but she only took another step back. "Sara, listen to me, listen to my voice," he said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. "Please, if you love me, if you love Grissom, stop scratching yourself. Please."

Sara's eyes seemed to widen in understanding and she looked down and gasped, pulling her arms apart and staring at the blood caked under her nails. Her arms were covered in white and red cuts, some of which were still bleeding. She closed her eyes and let out a little sob as she tilted her face towards the ceiling, shaking her head. "I don't know who I am anymore, Greg. I don't know what I'm doing."

Greg took another step towards her and when she didn't move to get away, he approached her step by step and took her by the wrists. "That's OK," he said. "Because _I_ know who you are. And I will help you find yourself again. OK?"

Sara nodded as her lip quivered, but her eyes darted to the door. "I need to take a shower," she said.

"We need to take care of those scratches first," Greg insisted.

She pulled her wrists away from him. But her next words were scared, not angry. "Please… please don't touch me."

He obliged, although it was all he could do not to throw his arms around her and kiss her to make it all go away. "Listen," he said. "I think we should end this. It's stressing you out more than you need, making you do crazy things… Work things out with Grissom. Or, you know, don't. Whatever, it's like you said, that's between you and him. But as far as we're concerned, this is over."

Sara nodded, but leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to a sitting position. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed them to feel warm again, smearing blood all over her arms. "You're right, of course," she said. "You were always right. And I'm wrong. I'm just… _wrong_."

Greg couldn't leave her like that. He knelt down in front of her, careful not to touch her even by accident as he tried to catch her eye. "You are not _wrong_," he said firmly. "Do you hear me? I love you, Sara Sidle, baggage and craziness and everything. I wasn't lying about anything I said yesterday. And all I want is what's best for _you_. And right now, an affair, stress, lies… those are not good for you. Because let's face it, Sara, in this game, everyone always loses. Everyone always gets hurt. And one way or another, after yesterday, one of your relationships was bound to fail. And for purely selfish reasons, I had hoped that it wouldn't be ours. But I see now that you're a wreck without Grissom, even if you don't. I just want you to feel like yourself again. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded again, hugging her knees to her chest. She looked like a little girl. "I'm sorry I freaked out just now."

Greg favored her with a half smile. "What did I just say about apologies? You don't owe me _anything_."

"I owe you everything, Greg," Sara whispered. "And I won't ever forget about that debt."

Greg rose to his feet and offered her a hand. "You don't have to take it," he assured her. But she reached out her own hand and grasped his and he pulled her to her feet. "Now will you let me take you to get those scratches taken care of?"

She nodded, too untrusting of her own voice to speak. "Yes… Can we… _not_ explain how I got these?"

Greg pulled her arm out and looked at it, before looking up at Sara. "It'll be kind of hard," he said. "After all, all your friends are CSIs. They know accidental scrapes from self-inflicted wounds."

"I was attacked by a cat," Sara explained. "It's simple, it's eloquent, and it's completely plausible."

"Cats have three claws," Greg said. "And the space between your scratches are too much for a cat."

"Then I had some killer mosquito bites and scratched at them in my sleep," Sara relented.

"There are no bug bites," Greg pointed out.

"Dry skin," Sara amended.

"That's better," Greg decided. "Come on, I'll get some peroxide and some band-aids and we'll call it a night."

* * *

"What happened to your arms?" 

Sara pulled the covers over her shoulder. "Dry skin," she explained. "Scratched at them in my sleep and scratched a little too much."

Grissom pulled the covers away and looked curiously at her arms. Sara was thankful he didn't grab her wrist and force her to show him. He looked up at her. "OK," he said.

"You don't believe me?" she said, trying to sound offended.

Grissom shrugged. "You wouldn't lie."

She knew that he actually felt that way, and it made her feel sick. "You trust me so invariably…"

"I always will," Grissom replied.

Sara sat up in the bed and looked deep into his blue eyes and saw that he meant it. She smiled at him and leaned forward, kissing him softly. But he pulled away and looked at her with confused eyes.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked. "Because we don't have to, if you're not OK."

Sara was even more encouraged by the fact that he'd even asked. "More than anything," she replied. She leaned forward to kiss him again and this time he didn't break it. She let his hand run down her neck and over her shoulder. For the first time in six months, she didn't push him away.

His caress was soft and sweet. He let her call all the shots. He told her they could stop at any time, but it only made her want him more. They moved slow, every touch light, ever fleeting kiss tender and relaxed.

Sara felt like she had reached some sort of catharsis. She was opening her heart again. She was reconnecting with Gil Grissom, a man whom she hadn't let touch her for six whole months and he had waited by her side ever so patiently, just waiting for her to be herself again.

And that's all Greg had wanted, too. For her to be herself again. She realized as his dark eyes entered her mind that he was the last person she should have been thinking of at that moment, so she pushed him from her mind. She concentrated on this moment, this moment she shared with Grissom, and she found herself comforted by his warmth. Somewhere deep inside her, Sara knew that it was guilty sex, and it was the only part of her that didn't feel good about what she was doing. But she pushed the guilt even deeper then she had pushed her thoughts of Greg and tried to fill her mind with Grissom and the love that they shared.

She was certain now that they were still as much in love as they were six months ago before she had been taken. The only difference now was that Grissom was unafraid to admit it while she still stumbled on the words. It was a true role reversal. And up until now, she thought she couldn't say it because she didn't actually love Grissom as much as she thought she did. But then she realized, after saying it so clearly to Greg that it wasn't Grissom she was afraid of but love in general. Ironically, Greg opening up to her had allowed her to open herself up to Grissom.

Maybe things were turning out for the best after all.

Or maybe not.

She rested her head on his chest, listening to him breathe as she thought of Greg again and the words he had spoken to her in the conference room. _I just want what's best for you_. He had assumed that Grissom was what was best for her, and he may have even been right. But Sara knew that the only one who could determine what was best for Sara Sidle was Sara Sidle.

So why was it so hard to figure out what it was she wanted?

Slowly, Grissom's breaths began to get deeper and Sara glanced up at him to see he had finally fallen asleep. But she felt wide awake. Her mind was a cluttered freeway for thoughts with nowhere to go. She listened to him breathe, envious of the deep sleep he was lost in, and pitying him at the same time. He was completely innocent in all of this. He didn't know what Sara had done the previous evening. She had committed the ultimate betrayal and she knew that somehow she would be punished for it in the long run. Though not very religious, she tended to believe in karmic retribution. Perhaps losing Greg was the punishment for her lapse in judgment. She wondered if they would ever be able to talk to each other as friends again.

And he loved her _so_ much.

But so did Grissom.

Which begged the question, who did _she_ love?

Sara lay there a long time, searching for the answer which never came. 


	5. Sasha

_**Author's Note:**_ Boring filler chapter. Deal with it, it gets more interesting tomorrow, cross my heart. R&R.

* * *

The next day, Sara noticed that it wasn't just Grissom Greg was avoiding, but her as well. Every time she caught a glimpse of him he ducked around a corner. When Grissom had handed out assignments at the start of shift, Greg had sent a confused Nick to be his delegate with the excuse that he still had some leftover evidence to check from an ongoing case. By the looks on Catherine and Warrick's faces, only Sara seemed to know why. But she decided to let Greg do his little dance. He would come out of hiding eventually. And for once, she was OK being on her own. She felt almost independent. After a successful evening with Grissom, she felt empowered. It used to be that she could call a date with Grissom "successful" if it hadn't ended in an argument. But last night had gone particularly well. They loved each other again.

She was looking over some crime scene photos when her pager went off. Reception. Odd. Shrugging, she headed towards the front desk to see what Judy wanted.

"What's going on?" she asked the secretary, who looked up from some spread sheets on the computer at her.

"You got a visitor," she answered, and nodded in his general direction. Sara followed her gesture and had to grip the side of the desk to keep from falling. She might as well have seen a ghost.

And he was smiling at her. _Waving_ even.

As her knuckles turned white, she leaned in closer to Judy. She smiled the fakest smile she could muster to her visitor as she mumbled at the secretary out of the corner of her mouth. "Judy, is this some kind of joke?"

Judy glanced from the visitor to Sara and shrugged. "I dunno. He asked for you specifically. What's wrong?"

"He's a suspect," Sara hissed, still smiling at him. "What's he doing out of jail?"

"Do I look like a mind reader?" Judy said snidely.

Sara contemplated turning and running but she was rooted to the spot. Aleksandr Volkov rose to his feet and made his way over to her. He took her hand and kissed it and she yanked it away from him again.

"What do you want?" she demanded. "You shouldn't be here!"

"I have offended you," Sasha noted. "I am deeply apologetic for this. Please, you must allow me to make it up to you."

"You held a _gun_ to my _back_," Sara replied coldly. "That's not just something I _forgive_."

"Please, I'll take you to lunch," Sasha insisted, gesturing at the door. "I wish to have a conversation with you, _dushechka_."

"What does that mean?" Sara said. "What did you just call me?"

Sasha laughed. "Please," he said. "I meant no harm. It is a term of endearment… Consider the English phrase, 'silly goose.' Your captain detective person should know what this means."

Sara was wary as she stepped backwards, cautiously fingering her cell phone in her pocket. But she was being ridiculous. Sasha Volkov was on _her_ turf. He was in _her_ office, and any minute now Grissom or someone could walk down the hall and see them both. He couldn't touch her here. "What do you want from me?"

"I have explained this already," Sasha said, sounding exasperated. "What is it with people here in this city, they do not seem to understand things until you say them multiple times. I wish to make an apology." He made a deep and formal bow. "Please, accept my deepest remorse at causing you distress. Allow me to buy you lunch, fair lady. If you are so inclined, you may bring a friend, or we can eat here if I continue to unnerve you. You do not trust me and this I understand."

"You should be in jail," Sara said as Sasha straightened again. "Why are you… _here_?"

Sasha grinned at her. "My lawyers here are impeccable. Should my wife chose to divorce me, I would say that she is fighting a losing battle. Additionally, I am one of the richest Russians alive today."

"You have a wife?" Sara was surprised. "Where is she? Did she bail you out?"

"Alas, she is… indisposed," Sasha said. "But perhaps you shall meet her another day, yes? And now we eat. I promise, I will not hold any guns to your back." He reached into his jacket and Sara reached for her holster, but when he pulled out his gun, he was holding the barrel. "Here, _dushechka_, you may have my weapons. You will notice that it is also unloaded."

Cautiously, Sara took the gun and checked the magazine, confirming Sasha's words. She held onto it, however. "Why do you want to apologize to me so badly?"

"Please," Sasha said. "I feel ashamed for having frightened such a beautiful lady."

"But you have no problem confessing to crimes you haven't committed," Sara pointed out.

Sasha shrugged. "A minor character flaw. Is it so wrong to go seeking adventure in life?"

"It's a little illegal," Sara mused.

Sasha smiled at her, knowingly. "Then for you, Miss Sidle, I will quit now."

"I bet your wife would appreciate that," Sara replied.

"Oh yes," Sasha said. "Perhaps she will." He held out his arm to her. "May I?"

Sara hesitated. She wanted to at least tell someone where she was going, but she knew both Greg and Grissom would overreact. So she decided to decline. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sasha."

But he looked touched. "You called me Sasha, Miss Sidle, I am flattered."

"It's your name," Sara replied. "Isn't it?"

"Then may I ask to call you by _your_ name?" Sasha inquired. "…Sara?"

Sara hesitated before shrugging. "I… guess…"

"What happened to your arms, if I may be so forward?" Sasha asked, tilting his head to look at her arms in concern. "I am sad that someone has harmed you."

"Nobody harmed me," Sara half-lied. "These… these were accidents. I scratched myself in my sleep."

"And others have believed this obvious fabrication?" Sasha was laughing. "Miss Sidle—Sara, please, what do you take me for?"

Sara sighed and even laughed a little herself. "It is a bit dodgy, I'll admit," she agreed. "But yes, it has worked… so far."

"Tell me, _dusha_," Sasha whispered, sounding sincere. "What has happened to your beautiful arms?"

"You don't want to hear about that…" Sara said, mostly because she didn't want to talk about it.

"Well," said Sasha, "if you refuse to dine with me, then perhaps you could offer me some coffee and we could talk in this waiting room? About your arms… about your romances…"

It was strange, and Sara had plenty of people she could have gone to talk to, but the appeal of Sasha was that he was a complete stranger. And her relationship with Greg had to be kept utterly secret. Even confiding in Catherine or Nick or Warrick could lead to some very awkward moments for them and Sara didn't want to burden them with that. "OK," she said, figuring that so long as she stayed at the precinct he couldn't try anything with her. And he seemed harmless enough. After all, he _hadn't_ committed those murders after all, had he?

So she went to the break room and poured Sasha a cup of coffee before returning and sitting down with him where they chatted. At first, Sara was very cautious. She didn't reveal any personal information about herself at all. They talked about politics and history, arguing some points and agreeing on others. Eventually, Sasha began talking about his wife and how they kept trying to have a baby but she was unable to get pregnant. He asked in jest if Sara would like to be the surrogate, and Sara even played along with it for a moment before neither could keep up the charade and ended up laughing.

It was very bizarre, but Sara found herself growing quite fond of Sasha Volkov. The more he talked, the more she realized he was an amicable, if eccentric character, who would in all likelihood never be able to harm anything. He confessed that he did have a penchant for taking credit for crimes he hadn't committed. He said it was a blend of a pathologies he had as a compulsive confessor and his urge to be in the center of the crime.

"It really makes me excited," he told her with a gleam to his dark eyes. "To see these crimes, what human beings can still do to each other after millions of years of evolution. I get a thrill when I throw myself in the middle of it. Try to figure out why these people do the things that they do. I minored in psychology in college. Specializing in personality disorders. Antisocial Personality Disorder, specifically. Tell me, _dusha_, have you seen many real psychopaths in your line of work?"

"I would say so," Sara replied, sipping her fourth cup of coffee. "They're always the… creepiest."

Sasha was grinning as he nodded. "Yes, yes, that is true. Did you know that 5.8 of males in this country show a tendency towards the disease in their lifetime? Is that not a surprisingly _high_ number? Five out of every one hundred men you meet has the potential of being a psychopath. And I am sure you have met far more than only one hundred men in your lifetime, _dusha_, and I am not including the ones you meet as a criminalist."

"Are you kidding?" Sara said with a laugh. "Hell, I've probably _dated_ one and didn't even know it."

"Did you know its prevalence in women is significantly less," he replied, his voice now a whisper. "It is just under 1. Which means even in a batch of one hundred women, there might not be a single psychopath."

Sara nodded. "Yes," she said, "We don't get many of those at all."

Sasha's excitement calmed down as he leaned back in the uncomfortable waiting room chair. "So," he said, changing the subject, "would you please tell me why your arms have band-aids with dinosaurs on them?"

Sara chuckled and looked down at her arms. "Well, they were the only kinds Greg could find—" She stopped herself, realizing she was breaking her rule of not giving any personal information. But Sasha was grinning in victory. This had been his plan all along. She sighed. "Alright, you win. I… I get kind of OCD when it comes to being clean these days and… it's complicated. Anyway, I ended up clawing at my own arms until they bled and I freaked my friend out. He got me the band-aids, we came up with a story, and everything's copasetic now, alright?"

"Why do you do this?" Sasha asked, sounding genuinely concerned. "You are a beautiful girl; you have no reason to hurt yourself."

"You make it sound like being pretty is a solution to everything," Sara mumbled. "It's not about that. It's about something else. I don't want to talk about it."

Sasha reached out a hand and took hers. "Please. Sasha is all ears, _dusha_."

Sara pulled her hand away. She was comfortable with Sasha, but not _that_ comfortable. "No," she replied. "I'd really rather not."

Sasha shrugged. "Suit yourself. But this man, this… Greg. He is a lover, yes?"

Sara began to shake her head then stopped and it slowly turned into a nod. "Yes," she admitted. "And therein lies my biggest problem at the moment." She looked at him curiously. "How did you guess?"

"You have found someone to love," Sasha said, sounding surprised as he avoided her last question. "Most would classify this as a victory, not a problem."

"I'm dating someone else," Sara explained, the words sounding horrible when she spoke them out loud.

"Ah," said Sasha in understanding. "You feel guilty."

"No one knows," Sara said quickly. "Only Greg, I mean, but… please, you're… a stranger, you don't know these people, you can't judge me, I mean, you confess to murders you didn't even commit for God's sake."

"You love him very much," Sasha observed. "This… Greg."

"He loves _me_," Sara replied. "That's for sure. And I… I do love him, but…"

"How much does he love you?" Sasha inquired, sounding almost like a news reporter.

Sara closed her eyes and laughed lightly. "More than anything in the universe, apparently. It's what he said a few days ago, anyway. But then Grissom…"

"Grissom?" Sara gave him a '_You-know-who-he-is_' look and Sasha nodded. "That was the name of Mr. Police Man. He is your actual boyfriend."

Sara sighed. "What do you do, Sasha? If you were in my position, I mean… I feel like such a horrible person. I can't stand lies or deceit… I've been cheated on before, hell, I've been the other _woman_ before— not knowingly, by the way, I broke it off as soon as I found out but… Dammit, I just, they're both so…"

Sasha nodded, knowingly. "This is a problem. You need a solution."

She sighed. "I'll figure something out. Right now… I don't know, Greg insisted…" Her phone began to ring and with a sigh, she gave Sasha an apologetic look and answered it. "Sidle."

"Sara, it's Nick… We just got a break in the sewer murders case, and Grissom wanted me to show you what we got. It has to do with the guy who held you up two days ago."

Sara rose to her feet and backed away from Sasha Volkov warily. "What do you mean? I thought he didn't kill those people."

"Well, he didn't…" said Nick, "but we found a bloody finger print on the female vic."

"Well we know he was _there_, Nick," Sara said, beginning to panic as her eyes never left Sasha. "He might have touched—"

"It doesn't belong to Aleksandr Volkov," Nick said. "We can't identify it. But it did match prints found at murder sites in San Jose, Houston and Albuquerque… The same murders that he confessed to."

"Nick, where are you at this very moment?" Sara asked.

"Sara, are you OK? You sound nervous."

"Where are you?" Sara repeated.

"I'm with Mandy, looking at the prints. Where are you?"

Sara looked long at hard at Sasha, who was watching her in confusion. "I'm… I'll meet you there." She hung up and stared at Sasha for a long time. "Is there something you're not telling us?"

He held his hands out to her palms up and shrugged his shoulders. "You tell me. You are the law officer."

Sara stared at him for a long time before turning away and making her way towards the lab.

Nick looked up at her upon her entrance and handed her the files. "I thought you were off this case," he said. "Why did Grissom tell me to call you?"

Sara looked at the file, her face impassive. She closed it and handed it back to Nick. "Are we going to haul him in again?"

"Volkov?" Nick asked. He frowned and looked back down at the file. "Well… only as a witness. We figured maybe he's been tracking this killer like we have. Maybe he's seen her."

"Her?" Sara raised an eyebrow skeptically.

Nick nodded and walked past her into the hall. "Uh… yeah," he said, sounding reluctant.

Sara followed him and matched his pace. "How do you know it's a she?"

"We found a hair at the scene with the root in tact," Nick replied. "Female. No match, just like the finger print. We compared notes with California, New Mexico and Texas and they all said they also found a similar evidence for the murders committed in their cities."

"I heard that they were all different MOs…" Sara said. "How are they even connected?"

"There's always a single finger print somewhere, and they all match. It's like a signature. That, and the fact that Aleksandr Volkov takes the credit for all her crimes. But this is the first time we found anything other than a fingerprint. The hair at least gives us a new clue to who she is." Nick stopped and turned to face her. "Look, Sara, this isn't your case anymore. I only told you about Volkov because Grissom wanted you to know. He said you were pretty freaked out by him. He just wants you to be careful, alright?" Sara nodded slowly. Nick waved at someone over her shoulder. "Hey, Greg!"

She spun around just in time to see Greg stop like a deer caught in the head lights before he continued walking briskly down the intersecting hallway. Nick frowned. "That's odd, I know he heard me…"

"It's me," Sara admitted. "We're having issues and he's avoiding me."

"Is that why I've suddenly become his liaison for everything?" Nick asked, looking annoyed. "We're working this other case together and he's all, 'You go pick up the evidence, you go talk to Grissom, you do everything relating to _people_,' I mean, really!"

Sara couldn't help but chuckle lightly. "Yeah, he's avoiding Grissom too."

"He and Grissom aren't having issues, are they?" Nick asked, surprised. "Because I just talked to Grissom and he asked if Greg was even here today. He didn't sound—"

"Don't read too much into it, Nick," Sara interrupted. "He's just being Greg."

Nick shrugged it off, much to Sara's relief. "Anyway, I gotta catch up with Greg and ask him about some DNA evidence I had him check on a separate case, could you get this to Catherine? She's with Grissom last I saw."

Sara took the file and nodded. "Yeah, no problem," she said. "I wanted to talk to him anyway." 


	6. Vera

_**Author's Note:**_ Y'all are awesome, your reviews make my day... er... I'm doing so editting. Things got a little too angsty for my liking so I'm trying to lighten things up in later chapters... remember, I said I was toying with some serious stuff... I like elipses... they are fun... :o) Anyways, enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Greg turned the corner and sighed with relief when he realized he was at reception. He walked over to the desk and leaned across it. "Judy, if Sara comes looking for me, tell her I'm on a break. For… food. Dinner. I went to get dinner, and I won't be back for a while so she should just not look for me, OK?"

Judy cocked an eyebrow at him. "OK, I will, but why are you going through so much trouble just to—"

"Grissom, too," Greg added.

Now Judy was frowning. "Now he's your supervisor, I'm not going to lie to him—"

"Who said it was a lie?" Greg asked. "I'm hungry. I don't want to talk to them. Personal reasons. OK?"

Judy sighed. "Alright, I'll tell them."

Nodding his appreciation, Greg rubbed his hands together gleefully and considered where he wanted to go to get food and escape for a little while. He headed towards the Denali and was just fishing out his keys when someone leaned against the car. Startled, he looked up, and relaxed when he noticed it was a small-framed blonde in a miniskirt.

"Sorry, babe," Greg said. "But I'm not a customer tonight. I'm on the clock."

She smiled at him. "I don't know whether to take that as a complement or not. I'm not a hooker."

"Then a thousand pardons," Greg said in exaggerated apologetic tones. "But I'm still not interested. I got enough on my plate as it is without adding a bombshell like you to my problems."

"Did it ever occur to you, sir, that I might be here to report a crime?" She cocked a curious eyebrow at him and he looked at her.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I'm just tired and hungry and I got a lot a lot on my mind. Why don't you just go in there, ask for, uh, Sofia Curtis, say Greg Sanders told her to make your case top priority as an apology for being rude to you in the parking lot."

"That's sweet," the girl said. "You said your name was Greg Sanders?"

"Yes…" Greg said slowly. "And you are…?"

"Vera," she replied with a wink. She moved towards him. "And you're _sure_ you're not interested in a date?"

Greg laughed and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure."

"You have a girlfriend?" Vera pressed.

Greg wasn't sure how to answer that question. "To be honest," he said, "I don't think she was ever really mine to begin with."

Vera gave him the cute puppy dog eyes. Generally, when a girl flashed big blue eyes at him like that, he would be undressing her in five seconds flat. But not tonight. "Poor baby. Want to go somewhere and talk about it?"

It was then that Greg noticed it. The slight discrepancy in the way she rolled her 'R's. "Where's that accent from? I can't place it."

"You like it?" She was right up in his face now, pressing herself against him.

But Greg was beginning to get suspicious. "What did you say your last name was?"

"I didn't," she whispered.

She tried to kiss him but Greg pushed her away. "Look, I'm really not interested, alright? I'm still having issues over this one girl, and— didn't you say you had a crime to report?"

"Nooooo," Vera answered. "I said I _might_ have a crime to report."

"OK, well whatever your business is here, leave me out of it." Greg turned back to his car and turned the keys when he felt the gun in his back and froze. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear.

"Sara Sidle got you down?" she cooed. "That's OK, because we're gonna make everything all better."

"Who are you?" Greg's voice was low as a fiery hatred bubbled up in his stomach.

"I believe I will be asking the questions," Vera replied. "Get in the car. Passenger's side."

She walked him over to the other side of the Denali and he begrudgingly opened the door. She kicked him in the back and he fell forward onto the seat. While he was on his stomach she grabbed his hands and yanked them behind his back, tying them with coarse rope. She tied his feet too, then forced him into a sitting position before closing the door and locking it with the keys Greg had left in the lock. She walked to the other side and jumped into the driver's seat, revving the engine and taking off down the road.

* * *

Sara found Catherine and Grissom in the break room having coffee and she handed Catherine Nick's results.

"Nick sends his apologies," she explained. "He's on a Greg hunt."

"Is that like an Easter egg hunt?" Catherine asked, intrigued. "Does whoever finds him first get a prize?"

Sara frowned. "He hasn't been avoiding you too, has he?"

Catherine glanced at Grissom and shook her head. "No, Grissom was just making sure he still existed. I reassured him that yes, he did."

"I haven't seen him in two days," Grissom said, sounding confused. "Is something wrong? Did I say something I shouldn't have said?" Something suddenly occurred to Grissom. "It was that remark I made about his hair, wasn't it?"

"Don't worry about it Grissom," Sara said, rubbing his arm soothingly. "He'll get over himself eventually. If it makes you feel better, I haven't seen him all day either."

"Why is he avoiding you?" Grissom asked. "Recently it's like the two of you have been attached to the hip."

"Yeah…" said Catherine slowly, eyeing Sara suspiciously. "Is something going on that we should know about?"

"No," Sara said, a little too quickly. "I mean… I don't know what he's gotten into his head. He's just been acting strange lately."

"How is that possible? You spend every waking moment with him." Catherine pressed. Sara shot her a look, and she decided to relent, but made a mental note to ask Sara about it later. "Alright, alright. How's that Redmond murder case going for you?"

They made small talk about their cases for a while after that before Sara thought of an excuse to get out of there and back to where she could submerge herself in her work. But Catherine caught up to her.

"Hey," she said. "Can I walk with you a while?" Sara shrugged and Catherine was satisfied. "Great, because I was going to anyway. So what's the matter with Greg?"

"I told you," Sara answered curtly. "I don't know."

"You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

Sara stopped walking and turned to stare at Catherine, aghast. "Where in the _world_ did you get _that_ idea?"

Catherine folded her arms and gave her a doubtful look. "What do you take me for, Sara, an idiot? He's had the biggest crush on you ever since you showed up here, everyone knows that. But you…" she laughed. "Oh we all knew you only had eyes for one person. Until the abduction. When everything just came undone. I saw the looks you'd toss his way." She put a kind hand on Sara's shoulder, smiling fondly at her friend. "We're in an office full of _men_, Sara, but that doesn't mean that you can fool _me_ too. I know that look. All too well. Men are blind. Only a _woman _can really read another woman. So when did it happen?"

But Sara shook her head, laughing awkwardly as she broke away from Catherine. "No," she said. "It _didn't_ happen. I'm sorry, Catherine, but you're wrong."

"It's the only reason that would explain why Greg was avoiding both you _and_ Grissom," Catherine pointed out. "He feels guilty, doesn't he?"

But Sara just kept shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Catherine," she said. "But you got your instincts crossed. There is nothing between Greg and me."

Slowly, Catherine took a deep breath and nodded. "OK," she said. "If you say so, then I trust you, Sara."

Sara's skin began to crawl as that dirty feeling came over her and she fought the urge to scratch off her band aids. Why did everyone keep _trusting_ her? She didn't even trust herself anymore. Regardless, she smiled back at Catherine and nodded. "Thank you," she whispered.

Catherine was still flashing her a curious look before turning on her heal and walking in the opposite direction. Sara sighed in relief.

* * *

Greg was filled with so much fury, there was no room for fear. "What the hell do you want?" he asked, exasperated. He was tired of finding himself in these situations. At least Sara wasn't there to worry about this time.

"I have an uncanny fascination with human suffering," Vera replied. "My husband contents himself with mental manipulation, but I'm a much more… physical being, if you know what I mean." She licked her lips to emphasize her point. "We are a match made in heaven."

"Or in hell," Greg muttered. "Who are you? _Really_. Do you have a last name?"

"My name is Vera," she assured him. "Vera Volkova."

The hair on the back of Greg's neck stood up. "As in _Aleksandr_ Volkov?"

She grinned. "I see you've met my husband."

"You're Russian... _That's_ what your accent is."

"Actually," Vera said. "I was born and raised in San Diego. My folks are Russian. When I met Sasha at UCLA, it was like fate. You know what I mean?" Greg didn't reply and she tossed him a knowing glance. "Oh come off it, Greg, I've heard all about how head over heals you are for this Sara girl, I know you understand."

"How do you know that?" Greg demanded. "Why are you talking to me like you know me?"

"I live vicariously through my husband," Vera explained. "He tells me everything."

"And how does _he_ know all this?" Greg asked.

"Your girlfriend told him," Vera replied, as though it were obvious. "They had a nice long chat about all sorts of things."

"Sara?" Greg bristled like a dog on his guard. "You leave her alone, do you hear me?"

"We intend to," Vera assured him. "Sasha has taken a liking to her. In fact, Greg, she's the main reason you're here."

"What to you mean?" Greg had gone from defensive to confused.

"It's his gift to her," Vera replied. "And a gift to me. Our anniversary's next week. He thought he'd hand you to me gift wrapped so I could have my fun."

"Gift to Sara…?"

Vera heard the bafflement in his voice and explained. "She confided that she was suffering from a difficult dilemma. As I understand it, she had a choice to make: you, or some other lucky guy named Grizzly or something. He told me to choose one of you and take you out of the picture, making her choice that much easier. You just happened to be the first one I came across. Thanks for telling me your name like that, I didn't even have to ask, you're so polite." She flashed him an appreciative smile as he glared at her.

"Why would Sara talk to your husband like that?" Greg said in disbelief. "He held her at _gunpoint_."

"I held you at gunpoint and we seem to be having a pretty civil conversation, wouldn't you say?" Vera said casually.

Greg was about to snap back when he realized she was right. So in protest he looked away from her and stared blindly out the window. It occurred to him suddenly that he should watch where they were going. But just as he realized this, she turned into an alley he wasn't familiar with and missed the last street sign by about two seconds. Frustrated, he leaned his head back against his headrest.

"Your silence is your choice," Vera said eventually. "I don't mind if you talk or not. Either way, you'll end up dead. Just like all the rest."

Greg had so many questions he wanted to ask her. What was she going to do to him? Would it be quick? Would they truly leave Sara alone? But his stubbornness conflicted with his urge to ask these questions. And he knew that she wouldn't give him any satisfactory answers anyway. So he decided to keep up the silent treatment. He focused on keeping an eye on where they were going. If he could ever contact the lab, he could tell them…

His heart sank into his stomach as he remembered what he'd told Judy. They wouldn't notice he was missing for a few hours, if that. All of a sudden, he wished he hadn't been avoiding Grissom and Sara all day. He looked at his cell phone in his pocket and prayed the battery would last long enough for them to locate it on GPS. He had learned his lesson sixth months ago and bought a new phone, with standard GPS tracking in case he'd ever need it again. Last time he was in this situation, his arms had been free. True, one of them had been shot, but the other he had used to send Nick a quick SOS text message. Now, he couldn't even do that. He wiggled around in the seat, trying to break the bonds and found that if Vera Volkova knew one thing, it was how to tie a knot.

Suddenly, her phone began to ring and she answered it. Greg watched her. "Hey, baby… Yes, everything is under control. Do you want to watch?... I figured. Yeah, you got things to do. I'll bet they'll want to talk to you more after finding that print… Uh huh… Oh yes, we'll have all sorts of fun together, won't we Greg?" She winked at him and it made Greg feel ill. She continued talking on the phone. "… Right, babe… Love you too… Bye." She hung up. "Sasha sends his regards," she said casually.

_I'll bet_, Greg thought bitterly, struggling against his binds again. She didn't seem fazed by his efforts, probably confident in her own knots to know he wouldn't break lose. But Greg had a different idea.

His phone was in his right pocket. His left shoulder wasn't as flexible as it used to be, but he could possibly maneuver it enough to reach his phone. He silently thanked God for Sara making him take those yoga classes with her after their abduction. They had done nothing to relax him, but everything to increase his flexibility.

But he overestimated how his left shoulder could move. As he pulled at it and twisted in his seat his tender shoulder began to scream at him. He grit his teeth and bared it, just like he had done six months ago. And besides, the pain wasn't nearly as bad as it had been back then. He had passed out from the pain before, now he just had to tolerate it enough to reach his pocket…

There! His right hand was in the pocket as his fingers searched for the phone. He brought up his leg, trying to reach it, but it was deeper in his pocket than he'd thought. He let out a frustrated growl.

"Having difficulties?" Vera inquired innocently. "Don't bother trying. Those ropes are tied tighter than anything. Besides, we're here."

"Huh?" Greg looked around and noticed they were in a suburban neighborhood. A very _familiar_ suburban neighborhood.

"Wait a minute…" he muttered. "I know this place…"

Vera pulled into a driveway and jumped out of the car. She approached the passenger's side and opened the door, pulling Greg out and making him stumble.

"Yo!" he said. "My feet are tied together. I can't walk. Or did you forget that?"

Vera shrugged, gagged him, then hoisted Greg over her shoulder, surprisingly strong for her stature. But Greg kicked and tried to scream through the disgusting tasting gag. Someone in the neighborhood _had_ to hear him! Her grip on him was strong, and the gag prevented him from making any discernable noises, but was she really so _arrogant_ that she thought she could just _kill_ people in suburbia and no one would _notice_?

When she opened the front door to the house was when Greg saw it: the defining landmark that told him why this neighborhood was so familiar to him. If his mouth hadn't been filled with a rag, his jaw might have dropped.

But his vision of salvation was shattered when the door closed in his face and Vera dropped him on the couch, removing his gag. He looked around. It seemed like a normal living room. Photos of Sasha and Vera together adorned the mantelpiece. The furniture matched a color scheme of blue and white. Only the coffee table stood out as unusual. Various medical instruments were scattered over its surface, all of them bloody.

He glared at her. "I know where we are," he gloated. "My colleague lives right across the street from you. She gets home in the morning, she'll see my car in your driveway and she'll—"

"What makes you think you'll be alive by then?" Vera taunted.

It was then and only then that a cold wave of fear washed over him, all his indignation extinguished by this sudden swell of panic. "W-what are you going to do?" he asked, trying and failing not to stutter.

She grabbed his chin, her sharp nails digging into his skin as she made him face her. "I'm going to kill you," she replied. "Isn't it obvious?" And then she punched him hard across his face.

Greg spat blood out of his mouth, spraying the couch he was sitting on, then turned to look at Vera with angry eyes. The stinging encompassed his entire cheek and his jaw felt sore, but not sore enough that he couldn't speak. "What do you want from me?"

Vera tossed her blonde had back and laughed viciously. She pulled a knife off of the coffee table and leaned in close to Greg's ear. "Your spirit," she replied, before digging the knife into his left shoulder, right where the bullet had bored into it six months prior.

Greg let out a loud scream as the pain shot through him like a lightening bolt. His eyes flashed with red and for a moment he thought his whole body was bleeding … He imagined blood trickling out of his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears, everything… Or maybe that's just what he wanted. At least then, he might be able to get some of the pressure out of him. His head throbbed with the agony the nerves in his shoulder were sending it and he felt as though it would explode. The pressure built, his shoulder throbbed, and the metallic taste on his tongue made him want to vomit.

He didn't, however. He remained there, his head thrown back as the pain echoed back and forth between his nerves and his brain. He forgot all about everything until all he could hear in his head was Ryan Woodward's maniacal laughter.


	7. Poison

_**Author's Note:**_ OK, having serious issues with later chapters... I'm too lazy to rewrite twelve pages though, so I think I'm just gonna let it alone and be angsty. It's in the genre, one should expect it. But I'm done with angst after this. I think my next fic is going to be a romantic comedy. I'm thinking Shakespearean... Much Ado-like. Or something just completely wacky. I did have an idea for an action/adventure involving the whole gang (various pairings) and I might do that instead... For some reason, I adore writing CSI now. It's like an addiction and it's scary. By the way, I'm reading some amazing stories by you reviewers. In case I haven't emphasized that enough in my reviews.

* * *

"Hey Judy," Nick said, walking into reception. "You haven't by chance seen Greg anywhere, have you?" 

"He said he was taking a dinner break," Judy replied without looking away from the computer. "You need something from him?"

"No…" Nick said. "I mean, yeah, I kinda do, but… When did he say he'd be back?" Judy shrugged. "OK, then when did he leave?"

She furrowed her brow in thought then looked at her watch. "Oh," she said. "He's probably back by now, he left nearly two hours ago."

"Thanks," Nick said with a smile and headed down the hall. He saw Grissom through one of the windows, the floor plans of a crime scene sprawled out on the table as he tracked something. "Griss, you seen Greg?"

"I haven't seen Greg all day," Grissom replied. "Are you _sure_ he even came in today and you're not just covering for him?"

"No, he's here," Nick assured him. "We're working on a case together."

"The sewer case is top priority, though," Grissom reminded him. "I want to try and catch this killer before she makes her next move."

"How often do we get female serial killers, Grissom?" Nick asked rhetorically. "I mean, they're about as rare as they come and harder to track. They don't have a pattern like the guys do. No trophies, completely different motives..."

"No," Grissom said, straightening out the corners of the floor plan. "But she has been leaving a signature. Her own fingerprint at every crime scene. All we need is a person to match it to and we've got her just like that."

"You think this Volkov guy has anything to do with it?"

Grissom stopped and looked up at Nick. "I think he might."

"But evidence already cleared him," Nick replied. "He didn't touch those bodies _once_. Didn't even help to _move_ them."

"But he could know the killer," Grissom replied. "Perhaps intimately. It could be just as much a game for him as it is for her."

"You think they're lovers," Nick deduced by the way Grissom spoke.

"It's possible," Grissom replied. "I would have guessed they were related, but his DNA doesn't match any alleles with hers, right?"

Nick nodded as he pulled out his phone. "Yeah, Sofia's bringing Volkov in for questioning, we'll see what he says, but until then we've got nothing." Nick was about to dial Greg's number when his phone began to ring. He smiled. "Well speak of the devil…" He answered. "Hey, Sofia, what have you got for me?"

"Just pulled in Volkov," Sofia replied. "Turns out he was hanging out just outside the lab. You might wanna come be here for this."

"On it," Nick replied before hanging up. "Well I guess Greg will have to wait," he said to Grissom.

Grissom nodded absently as his index and middle finger walked down the blueprint hallway, the wheels in his head turning. Nick knew that Grissom had already left their conversation and was once more focused on his case. Whistling on his way out, he pocketed his cell phone and headed over to meet with Sofia.

* * *

Greg's breathing was slow and deep as he came to. His vision cleared and he saw Vera sitting on the coffee table watching him with her head tilted to the side. She seemed fascinated, a small smile on her lipstick-pink lips. 

"You've been through this before," she observed.

Greg's mind was awash with dizziness and confusion. He had the world's worst headache and his body was throbbing dully with a cloudy haze of pain he know would soon become more apparent. "Wha…?"

She sat calmly on the coffee table, hands folded in her lap as she watched him slowly come to his senses. "You have scarring on your chest indicative of a meticulous will to do you harm. Burns too. What happened to you, Greg Sanders?"

Through the haze in his mind, Greg was vaguely aware that he was shirtless. He flexed his fingers. They felt cold and numb. He wondered how much blood he had lost, and how badly his circulation was cut off at his wrists and feet.

He then looked down and noticed that he could see his hands, which meant they weren't behind his back. He was tied to one of the chairs from the dining room, his hands strapped to the arms, his feet tied to the legs of the chair. His shoulder was throbbing lightly.

"Why aren't I dead?" he asked, only half-caring about her answer. He didn't care about anything anymore. He was too tired to care. Too tired for fear.

"I was going to cut you open," Vera replied, her voice quiet and smooth like silk. "So I took off your shirt and I saw your scars. They fascinated me. I spent a good hour just going over them with my knife. Instead of cutting you open, making a y-incision and harvesting your organs, I couldn't take my mind off of your scars."

Greg looked down at his chest and saw trails of blood down it. His skin was ripped like fabric in very familiar places. At the edge of every cut the skin was white. She had opened old wounds, both literally and emotionally.

"I felt it was poetic," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "Whoever did this to you deserved my respect. Remembrance. Who was it?"

Greg turned away from her. He wasn't going to speak to her anymore. When she spoke again, he was mildly surprised at her tone. He had expected her to be angry, to threaten him with the knife again.

But her voice was begging him, gentle and sweet. "Please… Tell me, I would like to know."

"Those are old scars," Greg finally answered, almost against his will. "And old stories to go with them. I've forgotten them. Buried them." His throat was dry and coarse. He hadn't wanted to say anything to her at all, but her voice was cajoling, and evilly manipulative. It frightened Greg more than angry threats.

"You do not want to say," Vera whispered, nodding. "That's alright. I'll bet your friend Sara Sidle can tell us. All Sasha needs to do is ask her."

"Don't you hurt her…" His threat was as empty as they come, and they both knew it. And where Woodward would have laughed and defied the request, Vera simply leaned forward, frowning at Greg in intrigue.

"You love her very much, don't you?" she murmured.

Greg's voice failed him, so he nodded. Vera rose to her feet and produced two glasses from behind her back.

"I have a game for you," she said.

Greg cocked an eyebrow at her. "Oh?"

She nodded. "One of these glasses is clean water and Kool-Aid," she told him. "I poured it from the filter in my fridge and mixed it myself. The other is laced with arsenic. I assume you are thirsty?"

Greg gave her a wry, defiant smile. It seemed that, while too tired for fear, he wasn't yet too tired for humor. "And what if I'm not? You going to pour it down my throat?"

Vera's lips twitched. "You are. I can tell by your voice."

He hated her because she was right. He felt like a man dying of thirst in the middle of the Nevada desert. What he wouldn't give for a tall glass of water… "Give me the glass."

"Which?"

What Greg said next could determine the way he died. "The one in your left hand. Give me the one in your left hand."

"_My_ left or _your_ left?"

"I said _your_ left, didn't I?" Greg snapped. He was getting annoyed. If he was going to die after he drank this, then he didn't need her voice to be yammering on and on in his head. He'd tune her out. He'd tune Woodward out. All he'd think about would be Sara and her soft, sweet kisses, her warm strawberry-scented hair, and the taste of Big Red gum hanging on his lips after they kissed.

Something inside him hoped that the glass he drank from was the poisoned glass. He knew that if he didn't die of poisoning, she would carve him up like a thanksgiving turkey… while he was still alive.

Vera dutifully held the glass to his lips and he gulped it down, savoring the cool refreshing feel of it on his sore throat. He didn't even notice the taste. He was so thirsty, he could have drunk his own urine and it would have tasted beautiful. And on top of that, he couldn't get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

When he was finished, Vera put the glass down and folded her arms. "You are a very brave man," she said. "I've had many before you refuse the drink, or take hours deciding which to choose. But you, you go straight to the jugular. I like that about you."

Greg smiled up at her triumphantly, certain of his victory. "Neither glass was poisoned, was it?"

Vera sat back down on the coffee table and put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands as she grinned at him. "Oh," she said with a laugh. "I'm going to have a lot of fun with you."

* * *

Aleksandr Volkov, or Sasha as he preferred to be called, looked very relaxed as he sat in the chair. He even went so far as to ask Sofia if she minded if he had a cigarette. She had replied that yes, she did mind, and she minded very much in fact. Regardless of this rocky start, Sofia slowly found herself charmed by Sasha's relaxed demeanor and the way he talked about his time in California and how lovely Moscow looked in the winter. 

By the time Nick arrived, he and Sofia had fallen into an intimate sort of small talk. His arrival seemed to snap her out of some sort of trance.

"Nick Stokes," she said rising to her feet. She gestured at Sasha. "Meet Aleksandr Volkov. He was kind enough to come in and try and help us with our case."

"Kind enough?" Nick cocked an eyebrow. "A day ago he was in jail for obstruction of justice and threatening a law officer. I think it's the least he can do."

Sofia nodded, the light smile on her face fleeing quickly as she gestured to the chair next to her and they each sat down.

"Mr. Volkov," Nick began. "You've been cleared as a suspect in these murders, but you were present at every crime scene. You were able to pay your bail for your previous charges, but if we found out that you assisted in these murders, I'll make sure you get the needle. Are we clear?"

" Crystal," Sasha said with a smile.

"Mr. Volkov," said Sofia calmly. "Are you involved with anyone at the present moment?"

Sasha lifted his left hand and pointed to his ring finger, which had a ring on it. "And you CSIs are supposed to be observant," he said mockingly.

It irked Nick. "And your wife's name would be…?"

"Vera." Sasha volunteered the information eagerly. "But if you would like to speak with her, I would have to insist that we wake her in the morning. She has a little bit of the insomnia, so when she sleeps I do not like to disturb her."

Sofia leaned in close across the table. "Vera would share your last name then?" she asked. "Volkov?"

Sasha smiled. "I miss your Captain Brass. He knew more of Russia than you. Her name is in the feminine. _Volkova_. But yes, she does share my name."

"And her maiden name?" Sofia pressed.

"Vera Kuzmina," Sasha said, obligingly. "She is from San Diego, California, though her parents, too, were residents of St. Petersburg. Once upon a time." A smile twitched at his lips. "Why do you ask about my wife, Sofia? She does not partake in my hobby of following killers."

"You've been following _one_ killer," Nick said. "The same one. And up until now, you were the only one who _knew_ it was the same killer at every crime scene."

"Is that so?" Sasha said. "Pure coincidence."

"Four different crime scenes, four different cities, seven different bodies. And you're telling me that all of that was a coincidence?" Nick was losing his patience.

"You are insulted," Sasha observed, "because I threatened to hurt your friend. Yes?" Nick didn't answer him but his nostrils flared. Sasha chuckled. "You need not be so defensive. Sara and I have… there is a phrase for this… patched things up."

Nick frowned at him, his hands clenching in protective indignation. "You talked to Sara? When?"

"A few hours ago… Midnight, I believe. I met her in your reception room. We had a nice long conversation. She has forgiven me."

"I find that hard to believe," Nick said. "Considering I haven't yet."

"She is a troubled young woman," Sasha observed pensively as he leaned back in his chair. "You should ask her to tell you about it. She has a lot to say about her colleagues. Greg and Grissom…" The smile slowly spread to his eyes.

Sofia seemed to be catching the same vibe Nick was. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to call your wife in so we can print her."

"I can't," Sasha said, holding up his hands as if at gunpoint. "I told you, I am averse to waking her after she has finally fallen asleep. I assure you, she would be glad to come in and speak with you, but please let me wait until the morning?"

"Mr. Volkov, I understand that," Sofia said, slowly. Nick could hear the undertones of anxiety which she kept from her voice. He knew Sasha was hiding something, but Sofia sounded almost as though she feared that it was a secret they would regret knowing. "But regardless of your feelings, you will have to call her in _now_." She was stern with her words.

Sasha sighed and pulled out his cell phone. "Very well, if you insist." He held it to his ear for a moment. "She's not answering… Ah." He grinned, then began speaking in Russian. Nick and Sofia exchanged nervous glances.

"In _English_," Sofia insisted. "Please, sir."

Sasha nodded in understanding. "So is this OK with you, Vera _meeloshka_?... Yes, they are very anxious to speak with you." He laughed lightly. Sinisterly, to Nick and Sofia's ears. "Well, _dusha_, you are a resourceful child, I'm sure you will make the right decision… No, Vera, I don't think they would much appreciate that… Well maybe later then… Alright. See you soon, _meeloshka_. _Tebya lyublyu_. _Dosvedanya_." He hung up and looked at Sofia and Nick. "You are in luck. She was awake. But she was in the middle of a project. Says she is all messy. She must clean up, and then she said she will be right over.

Sofia nodded. "Thank you," she said.

"Am I alright to leave now?" Sasha asked. "I have to use the lavatory."

Sofia acquiesced. "Alright, but we may call you in when your wife gets here."

"_Spaseeba_," Sasha said with a thankful nod.

"Uh…" Sofia began.

"Thank you," Sasha explained before leaving.

Nick turned to Sofia furious. "Why are we letting him call all the shots? Who the hell _knows_ what he said to his wife on the phone, or what she said to him?"

Sofia held up a tape recorder. "Brass does."

Nick frowned. "What are you playing at?"

"We have to make him think that we still trust him," Sofia replied. "Which, might I say, you're not doing a fair job of. But it's alright. You played the good cop/bad cop thing nicely."

"You guys actually _do_ that?" Nick said. "I thought that was Hollywood."

Sofia smirked. "I let him call his wife instead of hauling her in because I figured he would warn her. We get this Russian translated, and we at least have one half of a conversation he obviously didn't want us to understand."

"Great," Nick said, feeling better. "While we wait for Mrs. Volkova, I'm going to ask Sara what she said to Sasha. I have a bad feeling about all this, Sofia."

"Me too," Sofia agreed. "I'm going to get this to Brass ASAP. I'll page you when Vera Volkova arrives."


	8. Lucy

_**Author's Note:**_ Quick research request: If any of you have a favorite action film involving bombs, or any infamous 'bomb' scenes from movies/tv shows, please mention it in your review. Enjoy the chapter and keep up the reviews, they make me smile and smiling is fun! Also, other fun Greg stories to read: "Into Thin Air" by fvhardy, "Finding" by PisceanPal23, and "Something Happens" by Kegal. The latter two are Sandles, the first is a wonderful Nick/Greg friendship, all of them deal with kidnapping and/or torture in some form. I'm still reading stuff (I love reading Greg-torture), more recomendations later. I figured since I shamelessly plug for myself, I might as well shamelessly plug for someone else for once. ;o)

* * *

She was straddling him. Greg was so out of it, he couldn't remember why or for how long she'd been there. He barely remembered where he was, but he wasn't too concerned about it. The pain in his shoulder throbbed mercilessly like angry savages beating on war drums. He wondered dimly if maybe the Kool-Aid had been poisoned after all, and she was just messing with him. She appeared to be humming, and it echoed in his head. Her voice was a sickeningly sweet soprano, airy but on key. She swayed over him, the knife in one hand and a martini in the other. 

She leant forward, martini waving precariously over Greg as her lips came in contact with his crimson shoulder. Her tongue lapped at it like a cat, licking his wounds as she stared up at him. Strangely enough, it actually felt kind of good, although it did sting a little. Though the pain still pounded his shoulder, it wasn't nearly as bad as before. It was like it was trickling through flood gates, present but not overwhelming. She nipped him and licked at the blood before straightening again and grinning at him, a trickle of his blood trailing down her chin. She spilt some of her martini and it crashed into his open wound. He flinched at the fresh pain the alcohol brought.

Her hand caressed his bleeding shoulder and moved down his arm until she snagged his hand and cut the ropes that bound it. Greg felt like he was looking through a kaleidoscope. She seemed to be changing color before his eyes. Violate consumed her face. He imagined her lipstick tube floating in the air in front of her, scrawling '_KILLER_' across her forehead in bright pink. He smiled at the unusually interesting image.

She raised the knife as she held his hand palm up. She put the tip of the knife in the center of his palm and slowly dragged it across to the tip of his pinky. Greg watched it bleed apathetically. It's not that he didn't feel the pain, because he did. But it was more that he was fascinated with the way the blood blossomed out of the wounds. His amusement and pain cancelled each other out into apathy. He watched her as she started again at the center of his palm, pulling the knife across his hand to the tip of the ring finger. She was laughing the whole time between her singing. Eventually, she had cut a nice red sketch of a skeleton into Greg's left hand from pinky to thumb. Greg thought it looked like the veins of a leaf. A crimson leaf in the fall. He imagined his hand falling off his wrist and tumbling dead to the ground, amongst plenty of other hand-leaves. The thought frightened him, and amused him at the same time.

It was then that it occurred to him that his left hand was free, free from everything, but especially his binds. He should use this opportunity to escape. But when he flexed his fingers, or rather _tried_ to flex his fingers, his arm muscles let out a loud scream of protest. He then remembered that she had sliced up his hand, and sliced it up good. His fingertips were stinging like they were each afflicted with the paper cuts from hell. He leant his head back and screamed as loud as he could, but he couldn't hear it in his own ears.

He felt the blade of the knife press against his lips and tasted his own blood dripping off of it into his mouth.

"Sh…" whispered Vera, still multi-colored as she swayed above him.

Oddly enough, Greg found himself obeying. "What was… that drink… What was in that…" But the colors caught his attention again as his eyes darted around the room in amazement.

She giggled as she leant forward and kissed him passionately. He tasted blood on her tongue, the sharp metallic taste no different then the one that already existed in his mouth to begin with. She pulled away and kissed down his neck, his shoulder, his chest, until her lips hovered above his belt line. She slowly unbuckled the belt and unzipped his jeans. She untied his feet. For a moment, Greg contemplated kicking her in the face, but his legs didn't obey his commands. Instead, when he ordered them to move they simply replied by sending him a sharp shot of pain as the blood flowed back into them, shooting shivers through his leg muscles, making him wince. It was only temporary, however, as she pulled off his jeans and he was left in his boxes. She was giggling madly. She held the knife between his legs and looked up at him, a daring look in her eyes.

It occurred to Greg that he had never had a sharp object that close to this, his most vulnerable area and a part of him deep inside began to panic.

"No…" he muttered, but he couldn't move. He felt nauseous, and yet he felt like he could jump off a building and survive at the same time. Chills chased each other from his toes to his nose and Greg imagined them as little children playing tag under his skin.

The flat end of the blade of the knife rested firmly against his boxers. He dreaded the moment when she would turn it 90 degrees and press down. He had no inclination to be castrated. Then again, he had no inclination to die either. And she didn't care about his disinclinations. She would do to him what she wanted, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But instead of doing any of the things Greg expected her to do, she straightened up, holding the knife and leaned on his knees.

"Did that scare you?" she asked breathlessly, sounding like she'd just stepped off a rollercoaster. Greg muttered a reply so unintelligible even _he_ didn't know what he said. She cackled as she grabbed the hem of his boxers and pulled them down. She retied his feet to the chair and straightened up again, smiling at her bloody masterpiece. She continued to hum to herself as she shook her head proudly, admiring her work. Slowly, she climbed on top of him again.

Greg barely noticed what she was doing anymore. He was barely aware of himself, let alone that he was now naked and exposed. As the colors danced and he swayed in and out of understanding, the notes to Vera's humming began to become clear to him. So clear and so familiar that his mind automatically supplied the words.

_Picture yourself in a boat on a river,  
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies  
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly,  
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes…_

As the lyrics came to him, he both knew, and didn't know, exactly what was happening to him. His mind formulated a picture of Sara floating in a velvet sky, her eyes shining… Sara… Sara… He smiled just thinking of her name, and her voice, and her smile… and her beautiful kaleidoscope eyes…

Somewhere off in the distance, outside of the newspaper taxis and marshmallow pies, a phone began to ring. It was like he had been floating up in the sky with helium balloons until someone tied a lead weight to his feet and he fell down, down and down, into the fires of hell.

The scorching pain returned with a vengeance. It seared his flesh and screamed at him so loudly that he wanted to cover his ears but couldn't because one hand was tied down and the other was screaming at him like the rest of his body. His muscles were angry at him for putting them through this. He wanted to apologize, to make them stop, but they would never relent.

The phone kept ringing.

With a frustrated sound, Vera dismounted Greg and looked over to the coffee table, answering her cell phone with bloody hands. "_Da?... Nyet, on vsye yeshye zheev…_" She babbled on in Russian for a while, raising her voice on various occasions, often sounding outraged. Eventually, she asked him a question, and his answer calmed her slightly. Finally, she converted to English. "Yes, I think it will be alright. I mean, I don't mind at all, I've had my fun. Do they need me right away?... I see. What do I do about the boy? Shall I murder him now or wait for you to come home to savor the kill... I see, well then perhaps you would like to hear him? He speaks in tongues of his girlfriend. I gave him the drugs and it's pretty funny… What the hell is that supposed to mean, _zalupa_, I don't have all day!... Later? Very well, I will be over as soon as I take care of him… Love you, too. Bye."

She hung up and turned back to Greg with a wicked grin on her face. "You are in luck, my friend. Sasha wants to witness your death." She sauntered back over to Greg and took the knife, pressing the flat part of the blade against his cheek to make him look at her with bloodshot eyes. He winced at the coldness of the steel and tried to pull away from her. She smiled. "That is, if you haven't bled out by the time we are finished." She spun the blade ninety degrees and slashed a good scar down the length of his cheek. Greg gasped as he felt his skin separate, but said nothing. "_Dosvedanya_, my good friend." She blew him a kiss before making her way into the kitchen to clean up.

* * *

"Sara!" Nick called out, jogging to meet up with the brunette as he made her way down the hall. 

She turned to look at him. "Hm?"

Nick's gaze was fierce. "You spoke with Volkov," he said. Sara nodded. "Why didn't you tell me? What did you talk about?"

"Nothing important."

"He said you talked about Greg," Nick said, refusing to let it drop. "And Grissom. What did you say to him?"

Sara sighed. "It's nothing, really. I don't know what came over me, he's just so easy to talk to and a few things slipped out."

"Does he know where you live?" Nick sounded scared. "Does he know where Greg and Grissom live?"

"What do I look like to you," Sara said, obviously offended. "A lunatic with a death wish? Look, I didn't tell him anything that would let him kill anyone. I mentioned Greg _and_ Grissom's names in passing, nothing more. I was… just talking. Babbling. He was a stranger, I figured…"

"Sara," Nick said sternly, taking her by the shoulders. "I need to know what you said."

"No," Sara replied. "I can't tell you that."

"Do you realize how annoying you're being?" Nick asked. "This isn't like you. Talking to a guy who tried to kill you, Sara that's—"

"He's no Ryan Woodward, Nick," Sara said through gritted teeth. "He couldn't hurt a fly. I was careful, alright? I just wanted someone to talk to and he was there, and he was a stranger, and he told me about his family, so…"

"You knew he had a wife?" Nick dropped his grip on her shoulders, looking shocked.

"Yes, I did," Sara replied. "And frankly, my red flag didn't exactly go up at the mention of one."

"Sara…" Nick said, his eyes filled with disbelief. "You _know_ we're after a female killer."

Sara sighed and nodded. "You called me _after_ I talked to him. I didn't know _then_. But come on, Nick, I mean, even if his wife _is_ the killer…" She trailed off, remembering something he'd said and all of a sudden her eyes grew cold. She began to rub her arms when she looked at Nick again. "Where's Greg?"

"Around," Nick replied with a shrug.

"I would prefer a more exact location," Sara deadpanned.

Nick sighed and pulled out his phone. "I've been meaning to call him anyway. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing… _really_," Sara replied, her mind at work. "Just… he talked about serial killers. Antisocial Personality Disorder… in _women_. And… Well, I was just wondering if you'd seen Greg recently."

"He's not answering," Nick said. "Hey, Greg, it's Nick. We're just wondering where you're at, give me a call when you get this. See you soon." He hung up and shrugged at Sara, who all of a sudden looked very anxious. He frowned at her. "Sara… What did you say about Greg?"

But Sara was already pushing past Nick and walking briskly down the hall to the interview room where she burst in and saw Brass talking to Sofia, both looking very pale.

"What is it?" she asked them both, sounding breathless. "What's wrong?"

Nick entered briskly after Sara as both Brass and Sofia stared at them.

"The tape…" Brass explained. "They have another victim."

"What did the Russian say?" Nick asked.

Brass showed him what he had translated on a piece of paper. Nick's blood ran cold.

"_Vera, my soul, how are you?... You've what? Oh, Vera, no… Have you killed him yet?... Good, thank God… Oh, Vera, please, be reasonable. Let the boy go… Don't raise your voice to me, Vera, I didn't tell you to hurt him, I never wanted you to—… Now—… Now, Vera, please… I've told you a million times you need to stop this. There are only so many times I can cover for you… Calm down, my soul, please!... Yes… _Yes_ my soul… Exactly, you comprehend now… Yes, she works here too, just like him… I just wanted to help… Yes, my soul… Hold on…_ So this is OK with you, Vera?"

Nick turned to Sara, exhaling hard out of his nostrils as she finished reading the paper. She gasped. "Sara," Nick whispered, his voice cold. "What did you tell them about Greg?"

Sofia gasped. "Greg? They're talking about—about _Greg_?"

Sara shivered and took a few steps backward towards the door as she shook her head. "No…" she whispered. "No, it's not Greg, you're wrong."

"He implied he was a _CSI_," Nick said. "He said '_she_ works here, too.' Don't tell me he was talking about you, Sara. Please don't tell me he was talking about you."

"I— I need to go," Sara stammered. "I can't…"

Nick caught her arm. "Sara, you can and you damn well _will_ now _tell me what you said_?"

Sara shivered. "I can't…" she said. "I'm sorry, I don't remember…" She turned to run and found herself face to face with Gil Grissom.

"What's going on in here?" he asked the three behind her before noticing the singular tear trickling down her cheek. "Sara!" he said in shock as she pressed herself against him. He wrapped his arms protectively around her and glared at Nick. "What did you do, Nick?"

"It's not what _I_ did," Nick said. "Grissom… They got Greg. We're pretty sure of it."

Grissom's face was stone cold. "Who?"

"Vera Volkova," Sofia answered. "Aleksandr Volkov's _wife_."

Grissom nodded. "Bring Mrs. Volkova in," he whispered. "I want to talk to her myself."

* * *

It was too hot in the room for Greg to breathe. He imagined that Vera must have turned up the temperature. He felt the sweat dripping down his face and onto the floor with all of his blood. He felt the life slowly slipping out of him, drop by drop, breath by shuttering breath. Woodward's face was emblazoned on his mind. The drugs— for Greg had become aware that there _were_ drugs somewhere inside of him, wriggling around like worms under the ground— had taken a turn for the worse, fabricating horrible, nightmarish images which reminded Greg of a gross exaggeration Maurice Sendak's illustrations crossed with Salvador Dali. He saw clocks with sinister faces, dripping off the trees in the forests where the wild things are. And in the night, when the vampires came out to play, he saw Dracula, poised over a girl, a girl Greg knew, ready to sink his teeth in. 

In a flash, he saw the vampire's face and noticed that it wasn't Dracula at all, but Ryan Woodward. And he knew the back of that girl's head better than he knew the back of his own hands.

"_Don't you touch her…_" Greg said, his voice sounding small and far away, even to him. "_I'm warning you…_"

The Woodward Vampire grinned at him with fangs dripping red with blood. "_And I'm showing you how seriously I'm taking you_." He opened his mouth and bit right into Sara's neck, throwing her to the ground. Greg tried to run to her, but he was tied to the chair. He struggled against it violently and all of a sudden the image changed. Woodward had Sara up against the wall, and Greg wasn't tied to a chair, but a cold metal operating table as he watched Woodward tear Sara's shirt off, kissing, _biting_, touching, twisting, grabbing… _raping_…

"_No!_" Greg screamed as Sara's sobbing echoed throughout the warehouse. "_SARA!_"

He struggled so much that the chair tipped over onto the floor and he knocked his head. The horrible vision of Sara's torment dissolved and he was in the living room again. Everything was spinning. He was breathing hard. His body had become cold and numb. His shoulder throbbed dully. The drugs still seemed to mask the pain somewhat as he sort of came to his senses. He was laying in a pool of his own blood and sweat. He realized that one of his hands, though covered in blood and scars, was free, and he fought the pain he felt in flexing his fingers as he tried in agony to untie the other hand. He was almost glad that he was drugged up, because he knew the pain would have been too much to bear if he hadn't been.

After what seemed like hours, his good hand was finally free, and he tried to get the blood running to it again, which was hard as he felt like there was so little of it left in him. He knew that escaping Woodward had been one lucky break. He couldn't dare ask God for another one. God wasn't kind enough to him for that.

He remembered six months ago, he had prayed that God would let Sara make it out unharmed. He had been prepared to sacrifice his life to hers if God would just leave her unscathed and get her home. He supposed God had compromised and let them _both_ survive, though with their own battle scars. He silently cursed him as he laid there on the floor, bleeding out. Why let him live then, only to kill him now? So he could taste forbidden fruit? So that he could have Sara for that one night, and then have her ripped away from him again? God may work in mysterious ways, but also annoying ones. Greg wondered for a moment if there was a heaven, and if he would wake up there. There are no atheists in foxholes, but not for the reasons people assume. When a man lies wounded and dying in the mud, he doesn't thank God, or beg for his life. He knows he is going to die. No, he finally believes in God, but instead of thanking him for the wonderful life he's been allowed to live, he curses him with every last ounce of will he has left in him.

The converted atheists in foxholes blame God for their misfortune because it keeps them from blaming themselves.

Greg tried to cry, but his eyes were too dry for that. He tried to sit up but remembered his feet were tied as well. He groaned and cursed God again for good measure before kicking the chair out from under him, maneuvering awkwardly to bring his feet up to him so he could release himself from the chair.

His breaths were coming in short, shallow bursts. But he needed to get out of there. After fiddling with the ropes on his feet for a moment, Greg gave up, too weak to continue. He pulled out his phone, barely registering that he had a missed call and a voice mail before hitting the 'call back' button and letting it ring. The phone lay open next to his ear as he lay there, breathless, hoping against hope that unconsciousness didn't overwhelm him before whoever he was calling answered their phone. 


	9. Revelations

**_Author's Note:_** Believe it or not, I'm STILL not finished writing this, and not for a lack of trying either. No, it's not writer's block, it's the exact oposite-- an overflow of ideas. So much so that I'm cutting a huge part of the storyline just to keep this simpler. I said it was getting too angsty, and that's because I kept thinking "Oh, and then what if THIS happened, and then THIS would make THAT so much worse, and then..." And, foolishly, I wrote out all these possibilities and I love them ALL but it makes things so depressing and complicated, I mean... One can only take so much angst. I also find I repeat myself a lot. Sara apologizes way too much. I think in my next story she won't apologize for anything. However, I did write a very cute romantic scene yesterday, and I do hope I'm almost finished. Since I'm cutting a whole extra storyline, this fic WILL end on a similar sort of note as _Finding Mr. Hyde_ in that it won't necessarily be a totally... _satisfactory_ ending. But you'll figure that out when it comes. As for now, enjoy this chapter and expect many, many more. This is officially the LONGEST story I have ever written, and that includes originals. Wow, I think I have no life.

* * *

In effect, Vera Volkova looked absolutely harmless. She was petite, around thirty years old, and batted her big blue eyes at Grissom and Brass as she calmly gave them her fingerprints. She had even waved her right to a lawyer. By the time she had arrived, everyone in the lab had heard the rumor that this serial killer was holding Greg Sanders hostage. And the fact that no one had seen him since he broke for dinner only added fuel to the fire. Catherine, Nick and Warrick watched the interview from behind the glass, but Sara had looked too sickened by everything to watch. She had offered to get them coffee half an hour ago and hadn't been back since. 

"You know why you're here, don't you?" Brass asked. "You're a suspect in a series of serial murders."

"That's what Sasha told me," Vera replied. "But I think you'll find you have the wrong girl."

Brass pushed a transcript of the translation he had made of Sasha's phone conversation. Vera read it nonchalantly before looking up at Brass. "What is this? A joke?"

"It's what your husband said to you on the phone," Brass replied. "When he thought my colleagues weren't listening." He pulled out a tape recorder and played back the Russian. Vera simply grinned as she listened to her husband's voice. "If you have blood on your hands, under your nails, anywhere, and we find it—"

"I will," Vera interrupted calmly, holding out her hands. "Sometimes, I miss some of it. I like to paint it on my face and dance around naked in my living room. It reminds me of nature, connecting to our… primal roots." She said the last two words in a husky, seductive voice. She had obviously startled her two interviewers. She rolled her eyes at them. "You guys think I killed someone," she said. "I was kidding."

"I'm sure you were," Brass muttered as Grissom took Vera's hands and examined them. He took scrapings from beneath her fingernails and then stopped as he looked at the neckline of her shirt. He reached over with a swab staring at it.

"Mr. Grissom," Vera said just before the swab. "I'm a married woman."

Grissom stopped a moment then looked up to meet her gaze. "Believe me, Mrs. Volkova," he said. "If I was interested, I wouldn't be reaching toward you with a swab in my hand. May I?"

She simply shrugged and raised her chest. She pulled down the neckline of her shirt revealing a red lace bra and leaned her head to the side. She cracked a smile as he swabbed her chest. He watched it carefully as he added a drop of phenolphthalein and the swab turned bright blue.

Grissom bristled visibly. "Whose blood will we find under your fingers, Mrs. Volkova?"

She laughed. "I am not sure, Mr. Grissom." She leaned across the table, her low cut shirt revealing a good amount of cleavage. "I'd just be thankful it's not your own."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Brass asked.

She grinned at him and replied in Russian. Grissom heard both his name and Greg's, but couldn't discern anything else. It was the first time she used Greg's name, and Grissom felt nauseous as he realized neither he nor Brass had said Greg's name previously. Which meant she'd known it before she walked into the room.

Brass stiffened and she laughed. "Sasha was correct. You do know the language of the motherland."

"What did she say, Brass?" Grissom asked, a cold chill tumbling down his spine.

"Repeat yourself," Brass ordered. "In English."

She nodded obligingly and turned to Grissom. "I had my choice of one of two targets," she whispered. "The boy… Or you. He just had the misfortune of crossing my path first."

"Targets?" Grissom inquired evenly. "What does that mean?"

Vera leaned back in her chair. "You are familiar with Antisocial Personality Disorder? I had to take a few psychiatric classes to complete my medical degree. I know it inside out. I _am_ it."

"We know it," Brass deadpanned.

"Good," said Vera, sounding impressed. "Than you know it can manifest itself in two forms: one, in mental manipulation, dominating people and using them as puppets, getting excited by bending people to your will. They make _fantastic_ liars, don't you know. This is Sasha. He delights in games. I take the second, much more physical approach: dominating people with brute force rather than a force of will. I slaughter. I maim. I destroy. Sasha likes to watch. He's a professional liar, Captain Brass, in Russian as much as in English. He _told_ me to take your friend, to do what I would with him. I wouldn't trust him with making my lunch. He'd probably poison it."

"You're saying your husband was involved?" Brass asked quickly.

"Involved? Of course he was _involved_! He always pre-screened our victims, selecting only the very best ones for me. The healthy, the fit, the amusing, the witty…"

"He's killed," Brass muttered.

Vera hesitated, then rolled her eyes. "Sasha is a weakling. He couldn't overcome anyone. Not like I can."

"Where is Greg?" Grissom demanded, narrowly controlling his anger. He didn't care about Sasha Volkov, or the other murders, not at that moment. He wanted his guy back.

"As far as I know," Vera replied. "I have done you a favor."

"You stole one of my _team_," Grissom yelled, his calm demeanor finally failing him. "You wiggled in here like a snake and _took_ him from us. He is my friend, and I want him _back_!"

Vera's laugh was cold and low. "Find him if you can. He mentioned one of you lived nearby. How sad, if he dies right across the street from where one of you lives. But Mr. Grissom, I am sure that after the news I have to deliver, you may be less inclined to save the lying bastard."

Grissom stood up, his hands clenched in fists as he banged them on the table. "I want Greg _back_! Alive and in one piece. _Where is he_?"

"You don't even wish to know?" Vera asked with a smile. "You don't want to know why I took him? Why I was _asked_ to take him to make your lives so much simpler?"

At that moment, Sara finally returned and handed out coffee to everyone in the room. Her hair was wet; she had obviously taken a long shower. Nick, Catherine and Warrick were already talking amongst themselves about where Greg could be, if he was in fact across the street from one of their homes.

"He's _where_?" Sara gasped upon overhearing their conversation.

"We don't know," Nick replied.

Sara's face fell and she turned to watch the interview, her arms folded protectively around her.

Beyond the glass, the interview continued. "I will tell you if you ask the right question," Vera was saying, looking at Grissom with bright blue eyes. "All you have to say is 'Why. Why did you take poor, defenseless Greg Sanders? Why didn't you take me? Why didn't you take anyone else? Why _Greg Sanders_?' I promise, if you ask, I'll tell you."

Grissom was gritting his teeth. He didn't care about _why_, just _where_ and how fast could they get there to recover him. "I don't need to know why, not right now. I just want the _where_, Vera, can you tell me that?"

But Brass gave Grissom a nervous look, sensing something beyond Vera's words. "Why?" he asked at last.

"Jim, that doesn't—"

"It obviously matters to her," Brass said, looking Vera straight in the eye. "Why, Vera? Why did you take Greg?"

"So Sasha calls me around midnight," Vera began, as though telling her friends the latest gossip. "And he tells me that he's met this girl, this… _Sara Sidle_…"

Grissom stiffened at the mention of her name. "You stay away from her," he growled, his voice low.

"Believe me, we have never met," Vera assured him. "But he had a conversation with her. They spoke for a long time. Eventually, his charm won her over, as it always wins everyone over, as it won me over. She told him secrets. About Greg Sanders. About you, Mr. Grissom."

Grissom's inscrutability seemed to have returned as his interest was piqued. "What did she say about Greg?"

At that moment, Sara burst into the interrogation room, her eyes ablaze with fury as she strode over to the girl and grabbed her by the throat, knocking her from the chair and onto the floor. She straddled her and hit her hard across the face. "You took him because of _that_?!" she shrieked. "You scheming twisted _bitch_!"

"Sara!" Brass cried out, jumping to his feet with Grissom as both men tried to pull the angry brunette off of their suspect. "Sara, leave her alone!"

But Sara wouldn't relent as she continued to beat the woman, tearing at her angrily. Once, she thought that Vera looked at her with Woodward's eyes which only made Sara feel more determined to claw them out.

Through it all, Vera was still laughing.

When Brass and Grissom finally restrained Sara, each holding one arm, Vera sat up on the floor with a bloody nose and scratches on her face, still laughing and shaking her head. "You must be the incredible Sara Sidle. I have heard much of you from my husband. As well as much of your lovers."

Grissom's grip lessened on Sara's arm and her heart sank. She knew that he had heard the plural and was wondering at it. She tried to lean against him, rubbing her head on his shoulder like a cat vying for its owners attention, but he did not wrap his arms lovingly around her like she'd expected. He stood stalk still and didn't move a muscle.

Vera was breathing hard, her gaze flying from Grissom to Sara in intrigue. "You noticed, eh? I have a feeling that you always knew he was a threat, Mr. Grissom. He is younger than you. Fitter. Probably more sociable, or wittier, or more exciting. But you trusted her." She looked at Sara. "You know how I know he trusted you? By that broken look he has. If he had known, and just ignored it, he would be angry now, furious with me for shattering his delusional denials. But he had sincerely trusted you. He had noted the threat, but deemed it irrelevant because he felt he knew _you_, Miss Sara Sidle. Oh my…" Vera gasped exaggeratedly in a mocking show of surprise. "Oh, I hope I haven't spoiled your love for each other now."

Grissom was shaking, and Sara didn't have the heart to look at him to even see if he was shaking in rage or sorrow or something else entirely. Instantly and wordlessly, he turned on his heal and marched out of the room, leaving Brass and Sara alone with Vera. Sara looked at Grissom's quickly retreating back and reached out after him, contemplating running, but her feet stood glued to the ground.

She didn't cry, though. Not a tear left her eyes. She was pale, and she was tired, and she was heartbroken, but she didn't cry. She felt that maybe it was because she had expected his reaction to be much worse, more violent, or something. But he had just… left. In a way, she knew that was the worst reaction she could have received, but right now she was glad that he had left her alone with this woman who had stolen Greg from them.  
She crouched down to eye level with Vera, who was still sitting on the floor as Brass watched her warily. "You are going to do me a favor," she said, her voice so inscrutable she could give Grissom a run for his money.

"I have already done you a favor," Vera replied, her voice soft and airy. "I removed the cause. But apparently not the symptoms."

"You call taking the man that I—" Sara stopped herself and swallowed before continuing. "Grissom's right. You took Greg away and we want him _back_, do you understand me? So this is what you're going to do for me, alright? You are going to tell me the address at which he's being held."

But Vera merely grinned and laughed at her. Sara made a move to launch herself at the woman again when Brass held her back. "Sara!" he snapped at her authoritatively. "That won't help anything."

Sara took deep breaths, her mind flooded with thoughts of Greg and Grissom. She felt maybe she should smooth things over. She couldn't deal with Vera. Maybe she would get lucky, and be able to get her hands on Sasha and tear him limb from limb.

Sara left and saw Nick, Warrick and Catherine just staring at her. Grissom wasn't there. She didn't care about them at the moment and left in search of Grissom.

As Sara slammed the door, Catherine turned to the two men in shock before running after Sara leaving Nick and Warrick alone.

Warrick looked at Nick, waiting for him to say something. He was grinding his teeth. Warrick always recognized the way Nick's jaw moved when he got angry. For his part, Warrick settled for folding his arms and leaning against the wall, lost in his own thoughts. Grissom and Sara's relationship had been revealed to them on accident because of Ryan Woodward. Now, Sara and Greg's affair had been revealed, equally accidental, because of Vera and Sasha Volkov. Would there ever be anything about anyone that wasn't revealed in a crisis? How damaging would this news be for the team?

There was a clatter, and Warrick snapped back to his senses as he noticed an upturned chair in the room. "Jesus _Christ_!" Nick yelled. "What the fuck is that girl taking?"

"Nick," Warrick said calmly. "Chill, man. We need to keep level heads here."

Nick's eyes were closed. "I know, Rick, but… I mean… _Shit_, who _does_ that? I mean, it's one thing to cheat on Grissom, that— that I can understand is their issues, but to tell a _perfect stranger_ about it? And a guy who held her at _gunpoint_ no less, I mean, what the _hell_ is she _thinking_?!"

"Maybe she wasn't," Warrick suggested. "You know, you weren't so quick to trust us with your deal with Woodward."

Nick sighed, calming down as he nodded. "I guess I shouldn't be so quick to judge," he admitted. "I don't know what was going through her head. What kind of demons she was fighting. All I know is what that bitch said."

"Exactly," Warrick replied. "And even so, it doesn't matter now. All that matters is getting Greg back."

"You're right," Nick said, a fire flaring in his eyes. "Focus on this now, talk about Sara's issues later."

Warrick grinned, glad to see Nick's determination to see Greg unharmed was stronger than his frustration with Sara. "Great. Where do we start?"

* * *

"Sara, wait!" 

"No!" Sara called back, but spinning around to face Catherine anyway. "All I've been _doing_ is _waiting_ and _lying_ and hoping if I just didn't do anything, everything would all just go _away_."

Catherine's eyes were pleading. "Sara… Why didn't you talk to _me_ about it? Why did you have to talk to him? I tried to tell you, I would have understood."

"No, you wouldn't have, Catherine," Sara said, shaking her head. "After what you went through with Eddie… No, you really wouldn't have understood."

Catherine bit her lip, knowing Sara was right. "You still shouldn't have talked to that guy. I mean, my God, Sara, what were you _thinking_?"

Sara found that she was trembling as she rubbed her arms to warm them. "I… I don't know, I was scared, I just… Where did he go? Where's Grissom? Oh God, this was the last thing I wanted…"

Seeing Sara distraught like this urged Catherine to approach her friend and wrap her arms around her comfortingly. "You know, it's not your fault," she whispered in Sara's ear. Of all the things she wanted to say, that had been the last thing on her mind. When she heard Vera's confession, she had blamed Sara as much as Sara had blamed herself. But that's not what Sara needed to hear at the moment. She needed a friend, and despite all the pent up anger Catherine felt towards Sara, Catherine knew that Sara was probably blaming herself a whole lot more than Catherine did.

"You know that's a lie," Sara whispered. "You know it's my fault. I ruined everything and now…" She swallowed hard and pulled away from Catherine, her eyes darting around the lab. "Where's Grissom? I need to talk to him, I need to tell him—"

"I don't think that's a good idea right now, sweetie," Catherine cooed in maternal tones.

Sara shivered and nodded slowly. "We have to find Greg, then," she resolved. "He could be dying, or dead, or… Oh God, this is all my fault."

Catherine took Sara by the hand and guided her back to the interview room where Nick and Warrick were talking, trying to figure out a plan. They fell silent upon Sara and Catherine's entrance. Sara was awkward around them, not knowing exactly what they thought of her upon Vera's revelations.

Thank God for Catherine, who spoke to break the icy tension in the room. "What were you guys thinking of doing?"

This was successful in dispelling the negative air as both of them kicked into professional mode. "Greg's phone is still on," Nick replied. "I tried to call it earlier, Warrick and I were just about to head out to try tracing it via GPS. Brass has already called dispatch to send out cop cars to each of our houses, checking the buildings across the street. We figured that—"  
Nick was interrupted by shrill tones coming from his jeans. He dug in his pocket absently and kept talking. There was no time to lose. "—that at least one of them would find something if what Vera said is true and—" He stopped short as he looked at the number dialing, his mouth open partially as his eyes remained glued to the display. Suddenly, something clicked in his mind and he quickly hit the "talk" button and held the phone to his ear, his voice desperate. "_Greg_?!"


	10. Nick

_**Author's Note:**_ Ugh, I FINALLY finished... It took forever for me to figure out how and I almost groaned when I realized that this story still isn't exactly finished. But I ended it anyways, with the potential for a short and final sequel. When I started this thing, I hadn't intended on it turning into such an epoch. But whatever. On the bright side, this chapter marks the half-way point for the story. Yeah, I know, lots more to go. My estimate is... nine or ten more chapters. This beast spiraled out of control. I'll leave it to you readers to decide whether or not my trigger-happy typing fingers are a blessing or a curse. Cheers, and thanks to all of you who are reviewing, you are my sunshine (but not my only sunshine ;o) ).

* * *

Greg wasn't very aware of the voice that answered. He couldn't even discern who it was. His breathing was shallow, his voice raspy as he gasped for air. He didn't have much time left. 

"Catherine…" he breathed, then coughed and swallowed. "You have to… Catherine's…"

"Greg, it's Nick," came the voice, sounding confused.

Greg forgot that he had a phone laying next to his ear and thought the voice was coming from somewhere in the house. He looked around, his eyes wide. "Who said that?" he asked, almost playfully. "Come on, come out now…" He coughed again, the room spinning around him. "No…"

The voice seemed to get further and further away. "Greg? Where are you, Greg, come on, talk to me, bro…"

"Brother…" Greg chuckled at the thought. "I don't have any brothers… You're in the house somewhere, aren't you…"

"House? What house, Greg?"

"I, uh…" Greg shook his head to clear it. It was imperative that he was thinking clearly. Images of vampires and grinning clocks flashed before his eyes. "Catherine's… Catherine's house… across the street… hurry…"

Greg couldn't think anymore. He'd said it. He told them where he was. They were coming. Or maybe, they weren't coming. He wasn't sure if he had made sense or not. He wasn't even sure if he'd actually called anyone, or if it was all just in his head. With a groan, his head tossed around on the floor as he lay in his own blood, pouring out of his wounds.

"_Greg?_" The voice was warped and sounded like a chipmunk. It almost made Greg laugh. "_Greg, stay on the phone with me now, we're on our way. Are you OK?_"

Greg started laughing, his chest heaving up and down, his wounds screaming at him. "You sound funny…"

There was a pause. "_OK, Greg,_" said the voice, now echoing in his head in booming tones that Greg didn't like. "_You have to trust me, alright? Paramedics are on their way and you bet your ass I'm riding shotgun with Catherine right now, we'll be there for you, alright?_"

"Stop talking…" Greg begged, the booming in his head too much to bear. "Sara…" He became very cold and started shivering. He didn't know what he was going to do. He had forgotten that he'd told them where he was, and that they were on their way. He had already made peace with the fact that he was going to die. He just wanted his friends to know where he was, so they could find him, and catch the woman who had done this to him. Maybe the disembodied voice could help him. "Hello?" he said to no one in particular. His voice kept cracking. It was hard to speak. "Voice in my head! Where are you?"

"_I'm here, Greg, I'm still here. You wanted to stop talking but I never left you, Greggo._"

Greg smiled as the tears kept coming. "Ha… You know, you kind of sound like Nick now… Funny."

"_It is Nick, Greg, I'm on your phone, remember? You called me. We're coming to get you, alright?_"

"Nick?" Greg gasped in disbelief. "Nick, I… I think I'm dying, Nick."

"_Don't you talk like that now, y'hear? I won't listen to you talk like that. Just hold on, you'll get through this Greg. Just like last time._"

Last time… Sara… "Nick… Nick, is Sara with you?" Greg's voice was unusually high. He wondered if that was just in his head, or if that were true.

"_Yeah, Greg,_" Nick replied, his voice warping again. It sounded slow, like someone had played it on a voice recorder on half the speed. "_She's here. We're all here._"

"Grissom?" Greg breathed.

There was a pause. "_Not Grissom_."

Greg let out a sob. "Oh God…"

"_Calm down, Greg, he wants you back as much as the rest of us, so you best hang in there for him, alright?_"

"He knows…" Greg muttered in his delirium. Grissom's face materialized before Greg. His eyes were a hazy blue, hurt and angry, and all because of Greg. He imagined Grissom was talking to him. He imagined he was saying he was disappointed. "Nick. Nick-Nick-Nick-Nick-Nick!"

"_What is it, Greggo, I'm here_."

"You have to…" He groaned as his shoulder decided to send another wave of pain out through his body. As the drugs wore off, the pain became more intense. But he had to say it. "Tell him that I'm _sorry_. Tell him I… it wasn't… I mean… ugh!" He let out a cry of frustration.

"_We don't have to talk about that right now, Greggo. It doesn't matter._"

"What are we talking about?" Greg mumbled, closing his eyes. "Nick? Nick?!"

"_Still here, Greg._"

"Are you for real?" Greg breathed.

He heard laughing in warped tones. It frightened him. "_As real as you are, man._"

Greg began to cough. The colors returned. Maurice Sendak's wild things were coming to tear him apart. He began to freak out. "Get away… Get _away_ from me!"

Nick's voice was fading fast and somehow turned into Grissom's, then Vera's, then, eventually, Woodward's. "_Greg, we're coming for you, do you hear me? Do you hear me Greg? Greg, baby, did I scare you? Answer me! Answer me, or I'll rape her again._"

"What?" Greg breathed, desperately.

"_I'll do it again_," Woodward's voiced hissed in his ear as he writhed on the floor.

Greg cried now. "No… leave her alone, just leave her alone… I can't… I can't save you, Sara, I'm sorry I can't save you… Why can't I save you?"

His throat constricted and he imagined Woodward's fingers wound tightly around it. "_I'm going to kill you. But first, I want you to see the pain in her eyes. You let her down, Greg. You always let her down._"

Greg thrashed his head backward trying to get away from his grip and ended up getting whiplash. He cried out. "Bastard!"

Woodward turned into Vera, who clawed her red nails into Greg's chest, pulling down like a cat. "_You see why you were taken? I did them a favor, Greg! You were causing them all so much pain. I did them a favor by taking you out of the picture. Now Sara and Grissom can keep their happy little romance without having to worry about you. Well you won't bother anyone anymore now, will you?_" She threw back her head and cackled like a witch.

Greg shivered violently as waves of hot and cold alternated in washing over him. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard sirens, but he didn't know what was real anymore. The sirens turned into screaming, and the screaming brought the nightmares with them. Sara against the wall, Woodward violating her, destroying her. He writhed on the floor in a feverish delirium. He tried to scream but his voice was too hoarse and dry. He couldn't breathe as his trachea tied itself in a knot. Somewhere, as if from very far away, he heard voices, but he could no longer be sure. Nothing seemed real anymore. His head was a swirl of rocking horse people and marmalade skies. Everything was melting. Everything was laughing at him. Somewhere, a vampire drank Sara's blood, bleeding her dry as a bone. He imagined himself as a skeleton with no blood at all, with nothing left but his own ivory bones rotting in the merciless Nevada sun. Buzzards had already picked away at his carcass, devouring everything that he used to be... This was his last thought as he drifted off into the open arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

Nick jumped out of the car as soon as Catherine pulled up behind Greg's Denali. Warrick and Sara were swiftly behind. Nick still had the phone to his ear. 

"Greg? _Greg!_ Can you hear me? We're outside!" He tried the door but it was locked. He ran into it with his shoulder once, twice, until Warrick joined him for a third time and it swung open.

Greg was laying half in the hallway and half in the living room in a pool of blood. His feet were tied to a chair and he was completely naked. He wasn't moving. Nick and Warrick kneeled down on either side of him as Sara and Catherine stood at the door. Nick pushed Greg's hair back from his head.

"Oh God, he's burning up!" he called to his friends. "Greg… Greg, can you hear me?"

"Greg…" Sara whispered.

The paramedics pushed Sara and Catherine out of the way of the door. Warrick stood up and backed away. One of them put a hand on Nick's shoulder and Nick looked up. "Sir?"

Nick nodded and stood up, backing away so the medics could get to work on his friend. He listened as they called to each other, shouting stats and orders as they tried to stop the bleeding and stabilize him. Nick looked across the way at Sara, who was grasping onto the door frame to keep from falling to her knees. Her hand was over her mouth. She looked like she was going to be sick.

Nick found that he had little pity for her. When he had first heard that Volkov had spoken to her, he had been outraged. The man had held her at gunpoint, how _dare_ he try and talk to her. Sara had been through enough as it was, she didn't need a criminal like Volkov obsessing over her. But when he had found out that she had _let_ him talk to her, that she had told him personal things that she hadn't even told _them_… He was offended, but that wasn't the main thing. She had endangered Greg and broke Grissom's heart.

But Sara was his friend, just like Grissom and Greg were his friends, and she was in pain too. Nick could see it scrawled all over her face. And as much as he wanted to be angry at her, it pained him to see her so miserable. He rolled his eyes, too frustrated with the whole situation to even try dealing with her. He walked towards the door, trying to get outside as fast as possible in order to avoid hitting something. Catherine caught his arm.

"We should process…" she began, but Nick pulled his arm away from her.

"What's the difference?" Nick asked, shaking his head. "He's in her _house_, Catherine. We know who did this."

"We don't know this is even her house," Catherine replied quietly.

"Photos on the mantle say it is," Nick replied. Catherine looked impressed. "Yeah, Cath, I took in the scene, I saw everything in five seconds. There's nothing here, we got her, so don't even bother."

"We have her," Catherine agreed. "But what about _him_? Sasha?"

"Vera confessed," Nick said. "There's nothing—"

"Sasha denied it," Catherine interrupted.

"The Russian," Nick reminded her. "We have him on tape, he _knew_ his wife had Greg and he didn't say _anything_ to us. Besides, he _lives_ here Catherine. Unless Greg has any evidence of Sasha on him, we can't link him to anything here."

Catherine nodded slowly as she rubbed her arms. "I know. I know all of that, Nick, but I… I'd just feel better doing something, you know? If I process the scene, if I just… just keep my hands busy, even though we don't need it, then I won't…" She trailed off as she watched the medics work.

Nick looked down, then up again at Catherine. "I'll be outside if you need me," he told her before leaving. On his way out, he had to pass Sara in the doorway. She looked up at him with frightened eyes and for a moment their gaze met before Nick tore his eyes away from her and continued out into the early dawn.

Nick raked his hands through his hair and looked up at the fading stars, blinking to keep his eyes dry. "Man…" he whispered. "What the hell do you have against that kid, eh?" he asked the sky. "I mean… really, there's Jobe, and then there's just fucking with people and I…" Nick had run out of things to say so he just sighed and shook his head. He looked up at the sky again. "I'm going to hell for saying 'fuck' to God, aren't I?" he muttered, then sighed again, feeling too defeated to even smile at his own weak joke.

He heard the door close and looked over his shoulder to see Sara walking out onto the porch, her arms folded as she stared at the ground. She slowly approached Nick, who was standing in the middle of the lawn and looked back up at the stars. She stood next to him, silently staring down as he looked up. While he appealed to some higher power, she silently asked something far lower and darker to possibly take her soul in exchange for Greg's life.

"I'm sorry, Nick," Sara whispered after a moment.

Nick closed his eyes. He still didn't feel ready to talk to Sara about this. "You don't have to apologize to me," he told her.

"No, I really feel like I do," Sara replied. Her voice sounded absolutely dead. It almost made Nick think he was talking to a zombie. She had no emotions left in her.

Nick sighed, guilt beginning to clench his heart. He let an ounce of warmth enter his voice. "You never did anything to me."

"I did," Sara said, her eyes never leaving the ground. "I hurt you because I told a stranger things I should have talked to my friends about. I hurt you because my mistake cost Greg a lot of blood, and cost Grissom his trust in me."

"That hurts you as much as it hurts me," Nick pointed out.

"They're your friends," Sara sighed. "And I…"

"You're my friend too," Nick reminded her.

"I should have told you," Sara continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "I should have told you when you asked what I'd said about Greg and Grissom, but I… I was so sick with myself, and I was embarrassed, and I didn't want anyone else thinking those things about me. My own conscience had turned into my worst enemy. I couldn't… I mean…" She sighed, giving up trying to explain it.

Nick was quiet for a very long time. Sara wondered if he'd ever speak to her again. Finally, her question was answered. "It's OK, Sara."

Sara tore her eyes away from the ground and looked up at him. He was still looking at the sky. "I… I really needed to hear that right now, Nick," she said to him, her stutter barely noticeable. "Thank you."

Nick looked down and favored her with a lopsided grin as he slid an arm around her shoulders and rubbed her arm like an older brother might do to a kid sister. "Aw, Sara," he said, shaking his head. "I can't stay mad at you." She leaned her head on his shoulder. After a moment, he felt Sara shivering against him and looked down at her, his brow furrowed in concern. "You alright, darling?"

She nodded, a little too quickly, and it made her head spin.

"You gonna tell me what happened to those pretty little arms of yours?"

She began to shake her head, then stopped and looked up at him with sad eyes. "I… I was upset, and I kinda lost it a moment, started… started scratching at myself to get the dirt out from under my skin. I still feel it there, even now. I always feel filthy these days. It seems everything I do just digs me into a deeper, muddier hole."

Nick squeezed her shoulder and smiled reassuringly at her. "Aw, Sara," he said with a small laugh. "That's all you ever had to tell us." He took her by the shoulders making her face him so he could look her dead in the eye. "You went through a lot those sixth months ago and you thought you were going to die. But when you didn't, and you came out of it alive, you'd forgotten how to live again. It'll take a while to get that back, to be completely yourself again. But it'll happen. I can promise you, girl, it'll happen."

Sara gave him a wan smile. "I should have known better than to think I couldn't talk to you, Nick," she said. "After all… You've kinda been in my place yourself, haven't you?"

"Yeah," Nick agreed. "And I got over it. Which is why I feel confident in saying that you will too. Because you're strong, Sara. I don't know anyone who can bounce back better than you. So these things you do in the meantime, trying to find yourself again, some of them may just screw you over, but you gotta keep trying, girl."

"I've hurt a lot of people…" Sara whispered. "In the midst of all this me-finding."

Nick chuckled. "Yeah, it'll happen. But Grissom… Sara, he cares about you a lot. And so does Greg. And so do all of us."

"What if that isn't enough, though?" Sara asked him, desperate for an answer. "What if neither one of them can… can forgive me."

"One of Greg's fatal flaws," Nick told her, "is that he's a very forgiving person."

"And one of Grissom's is that he isn't," Sara pointed out.

Nick looked down at the ground, then met Sara's eyes again. "Look, Sara, I don't have all the answers. All I can give you is my support."

"And it's very much appreciated," Sara told him.

Nick looked over his shoulder back at the door to the house, then back at Sara. "When Greg gets better, he'll give you his support too, whatever happens."

She smiled at him again. "I like that we're talking about Greg as if he'll survive this."

"Short of the apocalypse, I wouldn't talk about him any other way," Nick said. "That kid's a fighter if I ever saw one, all the things that have happened to him. He's been through the mill a few times over and he's always landed on his feet. Just like you."

"No," Sara shook her head. "Not just like me. He's stronger than me. You should have seen him with Woodward, Nick, I just… When I was losing it, he was focused and determined to get us out of there. He fought so hard to protect me, Nick. When Woodward was going to… Was going to shoot me, and Greg was tied down, completely unable to move, he actually _spit_ in Woodward's _hair_ to distract him while he yelled at me to run. He saved my life back there, Nick. I just want to return the favor."

"If you want to return the favor," Nick told her seriously, "then tell him how brave you thought he was."

Sara looked shocked. "I… I always thought it was apparent. I mean, I've thanked him thousands of times. I always said that I really…" But Sara stopped when she realized that as many times as she thanked him, she never told him how much she admired him. How much stronger than her he seemed. How he was her rock, her anchor to this world, and if he wasn't there, if something had happened to him, she wouldn't be able to keep herself from losing it. She gasped. "Oh God, I never told him…"

"When I was on the phone with him," Nick explained, "and he was going on in some delirious rant, he kept saying your name over and over again, asking why he couldn't protect you. You both came out of that alive, but because of the trauma, and..." Nick faltered, searching for words, "… and _other_ things Greg saw happen to you, he still feels like he failed you."

Sara shivered in the cool morning. "My God, I never knew…" she whispered. "In all the time we spend together, we rarely talk about what happened that day. Neither one of us like it. He told me once that he had nightmares, that he dreamed of Woodward doing things to me, and I told him about mine. Every time I thanked him for just being there, and being _Greg_, he'd always look away, like he felt he didn't deserve it…" She looked up at Nick with wide eyes. "I really do destroy everything I touch, don't I?"

"Sara," Nick said sharply. "Please, just do me a favor and stop this circle of _blame_ you and Greg are dancing around in. He blames himself for what happened to you, and you blame yourself for his misery, and for _letting_ it happen in the first place."

"Constant rape victim behavior," Sara replied. "I know. I've stopped blaming myself for letting it happen, Nick. But you're right, I do blame myself for letting it bother him so much, and for not doing anything to reassure him."

"Well stop," Nick said. "Because none of it was your fault. It was Woodward's fault, alright? And the bastard's dead. I shot him with my own gun."

Sara smirked. "Justifiable homicide," she whispered. "He turned a gun on Greg, and you'd already tried talking him down. Greg saved my life, Nick. But you saved his. Don't think I've forgotten that, or Greg either."

"Just never doubt me again, Sara," Nick asked of her. "If you need someone to talk to, talk to me. I won't judge you."

"Please," Sara scoffed. "You're judging me right now."

"Well," Nick said with a laugh. "OK, fine. I guess we're always judging each other, Sara. But it wouldn't change what I know about you. What I say to you."

"You tell me what I need to hear," Sara observed, almost sadly. "Not what you want to say."

"Because what you need to hear is often truer than what I want to say," Nick explained. "Even now, if I was irked with you for not talking to us, or putting Greg in danger, or betraying Grissom—"

"Which you are," Sara pointed out.

Nick rolled his eyes. "I would _still_ tell you it wasn't your fault. Because, Sara, no matter how angry we are at each other or ourselves, we have to remember that it was Vera who took Greg, and Sasha who told her to. It was Ryan Woodward who took the two of you, and who assaulted you. And we couldn't have predicted the future, Sara. None of us _wanted_ any of this to happen. You hear me?"

Sara slowly nodded, almost beaming. "You're a good friend, Nick."

"And damn handsome to boot, imagine that," Nick boasted.

Sara couldn't help but roll her eyes. "You're a goofball."

At that moment, the front doors to the house flew open and Nick and Sara watched in silence as the medics carried Greg on a stretcher out of the house and into the ambulance. Neither said a word as the ambulance pulled out of the driveway and the sirens blared as it made its way down the street. A few tired and curious neighbors were looking out their windows or were on their doorsteps.

"Why didn't they hear anything?" Nick asked quietly, bitterly. "Greg had to have been screaming his lungs out. Why didn't they _do_ anything?"

Sara looked at her watch. "He's been here for six hours," she said. "Since midnight, or at least, that's when he told Judy he was getting dinner… They were asleep."

"Yeah," said Nick, shaking his head. "But they can't all be heavy sleepers. They woke up for the ambulances."

Sara nodded. "And Vera and Sasha are bound to have done this before… You want to talk to the neighbors?"

"I'll ask Catherine to," Nick replied. "She was eager to keep doing something. She'll appreciate the task."

"And… what about the rest of us?" Sara asked.

Nick bit his lip and folded his arms. He hesitated before responding. "I guess we wait."

Sara nodded. "We wait," she repeated.

Nick turned on his heal suddenly and headed for the house. Sara followed him, more out of a lack of anything better to do than anything else. 


	11. Complaints

_**Author's Note:**_ I've started the final installment in this saga. I don't wanna talk about it (for spoiler reasons) but its title is "Phoenix" so keep an eye out for it. It will be short and sweet (or not so sweet). Read and review, as always, my darlings.

* * *

Catherine was kneeling down by the pool of blood on the floor, her gloves on. Her fingers waded in the mess and she closed her eyes, an expression of repulsion scuttling across her face like a cockroach.

"I thought I told you," Nick said from behind her, making her jump. "We don't need any more evidence here."

"It never hurts to try," Catherine replied without looking at him. She placed her hand palm down in the blood, then took it out and stared at it as though in a daze.

"Where's Warrick?" Nick asked.

"Backyard…" Catherine said, still staring at her hand. "He left shortly after you guys. Hasn't been back since."

"Alright…" Nick said with a slow sigh. "Cath, when you feel you're done here, you should talk to the neighbors, ask why they didn't… _do_ anything."

"OK," Catherine agreed. She was speaking in quiet tones that held no emotion to them whatsoever. It worried Sara slightly.

"And…"

Sara turned to Nick, wondering at why he stopped.

"Never mind," Nick said, shaking his head. "I'm going to go check on Warrick."

Catherine and Sara were left alone in the hallway. Catherine straightened up and took off her gloves. "Nick's right, there's nothing here," she said with a sigh. "If we want to really nail Sasha, we'll need something else to do it."

"Let's go talk to the neighbors," Sara suggested.

They started with the folks living right next door. A woman answered in curlers.

"Another noise complaint?" she asked as she balanced a baby in her arms. "Those Russians are always causing such a ruckus. Bad for the neighborhood."

"Ma'am," Catherine began, taking out her bag. "I'm Catherine Willows, this is Sara Sidle. We're from the Crime Lab. We were just wondering—"

"Willows…" the mother said, frowning. "Any relation to Lindsey Willows?"

Smiling, Catherine nodded. "Yes, I'm her mother, I live across the street."

The woman laughed. "Huh. Little thing never mentioned you worked for the Crime Lab. Rarely mentions you at all, actually… I kinda thought you were dead."

Catherine tried not to look annoyed. "Yes, well I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your neighbors."

"I'm Susan, by the way," the woman said, shifting the baby to one arm and extending the other with a smile. "Susan Reed. Lily drops Lindsey off here sometimes to baby sit for me."

"Hm," Catherine said with a forced smile as she shook the woman's hand.

"Oh, tell Lindsey congratulations on landing Clara, Peter and I are so proud of her."

Catherine looked confused. "Ma'am, I…"

Susan seemed to notice that she didn't know. "Oh… didn't Lindsey tell you? Clara… Um, the Nutcracker, coming up this Christmas, she's been cast as Clara."

Catherine looked pale, so Sara took over. "Ma'am, please, we need to know about your neighbors."

"The Russians?" The woman raised a skeptical.

"The Volkovs, yes," Sara nodded. "Haven't you ever heard… screaming, or seen strange behavior coming from that house?"

Susan rolled her eyes and readjusted her hold on the baby. "Yeah, all the time. But… they're swingers. You know? Kinky stuff. Always having… _friends_ over. Always screaming."

"You think it was sexual?" Sara's eyebrows were raised in horrified surprise.

"Oh, I know it was," Susan said, nodding vigorously. "Everyone does." She looked at Catherine pointedly. "You would, too, if you were here more often."

Catherine's eyes went from wide to narrow in seconds, but Sara held her arm. "How do you know that?" Sara said quickly.

"We complained, obviously," Susan said. "I went over there myself once and Vera answered the door _wearing_ it. Leather and whips and… It's just not appropriate behavior for this kind of neighborhood, with children around if you know what I mean."

"When you were over there, did you hear any screaming?" Sara asked.

"Of course," said Susan. "We hear it all the time. Screaming to stop, or whatever, but, we all know what _that_ means." She began to chuckle.

Sara's eyes narrowed now too. "Ma'am, you've been living next door to a couple of serial killers," she said flatly.

To her surprise, Susan laughed and shook her head. "Oh no. No, no, you've got it wrong. Apart from being loud at night, they were the perfect neighbors. Always waved, always stopped to chat. It's one reason we didn't insist they move. They were active in the community—hell, when Lindsey was busy, I'd leave Laura with Vera and Sasha. They'd take good care of her. She _loved_ them. So we as a community figured whatever happened at night behind closed doors was none of our business."

Catherine and Sara exchanged looks. Sara looked too revolted to continue. Catherine turned on the woman.

"Mrs. Reed—"

"Susan, please," she interrupted politely.

Catherine grit her teeth and smiled. "Susan. Has… has Lindsey ever been over there?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so," Susan laughed. "Only time she's over on this side of the street is to look after Laura."

"Good," Catherine said with a nod. "Because unlike you, I don't feel secure leaving my daughter with a pair of serial killers." She turned to Sara. "I think we're good here, Sara, don't you?"

"I think so," Sara said, still seeming to be in shock. They turned and made their way down the walk way.

Susan Reed looked like a fish. "B-b-but Ms. Willows— Catherine, are you… are you _serious_?"

Catherine stopped and looked at Susan. "Oh I'm always serious when it comes to my daughter. And my job. And I'll send Lindsey your congratulations on her role, although I think she'll be confused because Lindsey has been too excited over a vacation we're taking into the mountains this Christmas. And they did the Nutcracker last year— this year it's Swan Lake, and because of this vacation Lindsey has decided not to participate this year." She smirked at Susan Reed. "I love my daughter, Susan. I love my work. And I don't need a soccer-mom like you judging me because I don't bake cookies all day." She tipped her head politely at her. "Have a nice day, Susan."

Susan watched them leave, stunned. Sara couldn't help but smile.

"Nice job," she said, approvingly.

"Yeah, well, she was a bitch," Catherine said. Her phone began to ring. She frowned. "It's Grissom."

Sara's smile disappeared. "Oh God."

"Relax," Catherine said. "I don't think it's about you. It could be about Greg." She held the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

But the way all the color drained from Catherine's face did nothing to quell Sara's nerves.

* * *

Nick walked out in the backyard only to see Warrick had opened his kit too. He was standing in a hole in the middle of the lawn, bent over.

"What are you doing?" Nick called over to him.

Warrick looked over his shoulder at him. "Bodies!" Warrick cried as he straightened up. "Three… maybe four of them. Only one of them is intact. I saw a finger sticking out of the ground, so I started digging." As Nick came over, he looked down in the hole, about two feet deep. "As you can see, I haven't gotten very deep yet. The hand is over there." Warrick nodded at a piece of tarp he had laid out, upon which a hand with multi-colored nails was placed.

Nick blanched. "Warrick…" he said, crouching down by the hand. "That's not an adult's hand."

Warrick didn't speak for a moment, but when he did he sounded like he was going to be sick. "Little girl from the looks of it," he said. "Don't know many boys who'll paint their nails those colors even on a dare."

"Jesus…" Nick muttered, straightening up. "And there's more. What kind of lowlifes _are_ these people?"

"I wasn't fond of them when they held up Sara in the sewers," Warrick said. "When they took and mutilated Greg, I hated them. When I found that… I don't know, man, what is there beyond loathing?"

"Disgust," Nick replied, jumping down in the grave. "Pity."

"I sure as hell don't pity them," Warrick replied. "Damn. I hit another skull. That confirms it. Four bodies."

Nick crouched down in the hole and dusted away the dirt. He closed his eyes and sadly shook his head. "The little girl," he said. "Can't be more than… seven years old."

Warrick sighed. "Shit, man."

Nick jumped out of the hole. "Where did you find that shovel?"

"Tool shed," Warrick replied, nodding towards the end of the yard. "I saw it had been used, too. Took prints off it, but I don't know how admissible they'll be. Even if Sasha's are on it, he could just say he used it for gardening."

"He's an accessory," Nick said. "He knew all this was going on right in his backyard. Apparently literally. Even if he says he didn't kill anyone, he still didn't go to the police. We got him."

"Yeah," Warrick said with a sigh. "Unfortunately, not before he got _them_." He gestured at the hole.

Nick bit his lip. "I'm gonna go see if there's another shovel."

"Warrick? Nick?"

Both men stopped at Catherine's voice. She stood on the porch looking out at them, her hair blowing softly in the wind. Her silhouette in the first rays of morning was hauntingly beautiful, but the expression on her face was grim.

"What is it?" Nick asked, walking over to her. "Where's Sara?"

Catherine gestured over her shoulder. "Oh, she's, uh… in the car. Nick… the DA couldn't go forward with the accessory charge. Sasha Volkov's lawyers swooped in, said he should have had a lawyer the whole time. He's saying he's been trying to rehabilitate his wife. He says he loves her very much, but she's sick. He says that he confessed to her crimes to protect her. I mean, we got him for obstruction, but his lawyers just paid the bail again. We have no evidence to show he had a hand in the killings, just that he knew about them, which he admits... He's like butter, Nick, he just keeps…"

"Wait," Nick said, grabbing Catherine's shoulder. "You mean he's… he's _out_? He's on the _streets_?"

Slowly, Catherine nodded. Nick turned to Warrick, who was leaning on the shovel and staring at both of them in disbelief.

"Now, I'm a little far away from you guys," he said slowly. "So maybe I misheard. Volkov is… _out_?" Upon Catherine's nod, Warrick threw the shovel into the ground. "Then what the hell are we wasting our time here for? Nothing we do can help."

Catherine's lips were pursed as she shook her head, feeling helpless.

* * *

Sara was the first to step into the station, and was therefore the first one Grissom saw. He immediately regretted coming out to meet his incoming team. It was just approaching eight o'clock now. Most of them would probably be pulling a double today, it seemed. But not Sara. He intended on sending her home, for so many reasons.

But upon seeing her, he closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. But she wasn't one to miss an opportunity. She walked right up to him and made him look her in the eye. "Gil…" she whispered, pleadingly. "I know you must be… really upset with me right now." She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it. While he didn't pull away from her, he didn't squeeze it back. This saddened her more than she cared to admit. "But I need you right now. And I don't mean just professionally. I'm scared for so many reasons, and I just need to know that you're there. I'm asking you to be there for me, Gil. And I know I have absolutely no right to ask _anything_ of you right now, and you have every right to sneer at me or tell me to go fuck myself, because I deserve all of that. But if you just say that you'll hold me, if you just kiss me and tell me everything will be alright, it will make me _so_ happy, you have no idea."

It took all of Grissom's effort _not_ to tell her to go fuck herself. But he couldn't do what she asked either. He just had nothing left. He was completely emotionally drained. What Sara was asking of him, he simply couldn't give her.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he said, as though he were speaking with an acquaintance. "I just can't do that right now."

Sara nodded. "I understand," she said simply. "But you're still so incredible, Gil Grissom. I don't deserve you." She pulled his hand to her lips, still looking him the eye, and kissed it softly before letting it drop, which it did, like a dead weight. Grissom barely even felt her touch. "I am so sorry that I hurt you."

"Sara…" he began, but at that moment Catherine and the others entered. Nick marched up to Grissom angrily.

"You let him _go_?!" he exclaimed.

Grissom sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Nick, it wasn't my decision." He sounded defeated, and the tone threw a bucket of cold water on Nick's fiery anger.

"I know," Nick said. "I'm sorry, it's just— You should have _seen_ what they did to Greg."

"I did," Grissom replied. "I just got back from the hospital. I took his crime scene photos."

"Oh Grissom…" Sara was breathless. "You didn't have to…"

"Somebody did," he told her, matter-of-factly. "Did you think I just stayed behind, sulking? I fought my _ass_ off to try and keep Sasha in custody, but loopholes and politics…" He trailed off, too exhausted to even think about it. He looked at Catherine and Warrick. "I hope you guys found something at the scene? Something we can maybe hold Sasha on."

"Nothing that can't be explained away," Warrick said, disappointedly. "Possible prints on the shovel used to burry the bodies in the backyard…"

"Testimonies from the neighbors saying the screaming at the house happened often," Catherine put in. "No evidence that Sasha was actually _in_ the house when it did. Everyone only ever saw Vera when they went to complain. They only heard one person screaming, they always just thought it was her husband."

Grissom was tired. He could only imagine that the rest of his team was too. He made the split decision that none of them would be working doubles after all. Except for, maybe, him. "Alright then… You all go home, get some rest. If you need me, I'll be here, looking over Greg's photos and the cases of the Volkov's other victims, trying to figure something out."

"Grissom, no," Sara said firmly, taking his arm. "You're exhausted, baby."

Grissom pulled his arm away and closed his eyes. Sara took back her hand, searching him with her eyes. "Don't… Not now Sara," he said with a sigh. He looked at the others. "Listen, I want this guy behind bars as much as the rest of you. And I've already tried sleeping, it doesn't work. So instead, I'll work. Day shift just got in. We don't need you here. Go home, see Greg, get some rest, do whatever you want." He looked at Sara now. "You're not on my time anymore."

With that, he turned his back on him and marched down the hall. Sara's shoulders slumped as she stared after him, half in a daze. "I really fucked up, didn't I?" she said dully.

None of her friends said a word.


	12. Warrick

**_Author's Note:_** Yeah. More drama. Just a warning: that dark scene I wrote worthy of an "M-rating?" It's coming up. So don't complain about uneccessary violence because, um, you've been warned.

* * *

Sara sat in her car for a long time, not sure of what to do or where to go. Greg was in surgery as they sutured his many wounds. Grissom would barely speak to her. Nick and Catherine ducked out as soon as they could find a good enough excuse, and Warrick hadn't even spoken to her since he found out. 

For the first time in years, Sara felt very alone. It used to be that was the way she liked it. When she lost her parents, she had gotten very used to flying solo. For a long time, she thought she didn't need anyone else but herself. And then, she'd met Grissom in that lecture and she knew instantly. Here was a man who could teach her a few things about the world that she didn't already know. He hadn't been like the rest. And even when they stayed states away from each other, she always remembered him, and the bright conversations they had shared.

And then she moved to Vegas. She had always had plenty of friends at the San Francisco lab, but they were mostly just buddies, people she didn't feel were worth getting close to. Not people she trusted with her life. There was no one like Nick in San Francisco, always looking out for his friends, always grinning and putting everyone else first. There was no one like Catherine in San Francisco, always challenging, always caring beneath her tough exterior. There was no one like Warrick in San Francisco, loyal and diligent, always protective.

And there was no one like Greg, either.

Sara let out a frustrated growl as she looked at the ceiling of her car. There was a knock at the window and she jumped. She looked over to see Warrick waving at her and she sighed in relief, rolling down the window. She favored him with a weak smile. "Hey," she said.

Warrick gave her an equally weak smile. "Hey," he said, raising his hand in a weak but peaceful wave. "I noticed you hadn't pulled out and left yet."

"You were watching me?" Sara cocked a curious eyebrow.

Warrick closed his eyes, laughing lightly. "Nah," he said. "I mean— just a little. Look, I was just… That Volkov guy's gone now, and I just wanted to make sure—"

"That I didn't tell him anything about you?" Sara interrupted, frankly.

But Warrick frowned at her, looking almost insulted as he finished his sentence. "… that you were OK. Sara— I don't hate you for what happened. None of us do."

Sara shrugged, feeling sheepish, and stared at the wheel of her car. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know. I just… I kinda hate myself right now, you know? So I can't really understand why no one else does."

Warrick folded his arms over her open window and leaned on them. "Sara… We're all hurting right now. And I'm not just talking Greg and Grissom, I'm talking all of us. After you and Catherine ran out on us, Nick, he was… he was furious."

"I know," Sara whispered.

"I know you know," Warrick said. "I just don't want you to forget. You, uh… You want me to follow you home?"

Sara scowled at him and Warrick had to smile, glad to see a part of her old stubborn self shining through. "I don't need an escort, Warrick," she said. "I can take care of myself now, you know."

"I don't think there was ever a time when you couldn't," Warrick commented. "Listen, it would just make me feel better to know you got home safe, alright?"

Sara smiled. "I know you mean well, Warrick," she said. "But I'd like to be able to do things on my own again. For six months, Grissom has kept me on such a short leash. You'd think I was a criminal, the way he kept his eye on me. I don't need you taking his place now that he's…" Sara didn't know the word to use. "He's…"

But Warrick held up a hand to stop her in her tracks. "Alright, I know when I'm not wanted," he said.

Sara smiled at him gratefully, then narrowed her eyes. "You're just going to trail me, aren't you? Two cars back, one to the left?"

Warrick held his hand over his heart in a mock Boy Scout pose. "I won't. Cross my heart."

Sara scoffed. "Yeah, right. By the way, I saw those crossed fingers behind your back."

Warrick opened his mouth to say something, but let out a grunt instead as he slumped over the window and slowly fell to the ground outside. "Warrick?!" Sara called concernedly, leaning out the window to check on her friend.

It was then that she saw him. Sasha Volkov was staring at her sinisterly, pointing a gun at her with Warrick's blood on the handle.

"Sara Sidle," he said, his accent curving around his words like a cat. "We meet again."

* * *

He tasted gravel as the water came pounding down on him. He felt as though he was being pelted with rocks. There was a circus inside his skull, banging on cymbals and drums, elephants trumpeting and stampeding over his brain, taking extra care to stomp on his memory. Where was he? Had he slipped and fallen in the shower? The banging in his head told him it was possible, but the gravel in his mouth begged to differ. While his senses argued with each other, Warrick decided to try and sit up, maybe open his eyes to see what the hell was going on. A hand reached to the back of his head, where the ripples of pain were originating from. There was a bump. So he'd been hit from behind…? 

Slowly he turned over as the water washed over his face. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up and arching his back forward, hanging his head to hide his face from the water. He finally opened his eyes and looked up again to see that he wasn't in the shower after all; he was outside. And it was pouring rain. Thunder clapped somewhere, and Warrick knew lightening couldn't be far behind.

He was soaking wet with the worst headache ever. What had happened?

Sara.

The thought hit him like a slap in the face as he jumped to his feet. His eyes darted around the parking lot and he saw her car exactly where he'd left it. Sara had parked in the corner of the lot, and he had fallen down behind it, which explained why no one had found him yet. He looked in Sara's car window. The keys were in the ignition.

Professional instinct kicked in and he pulled his sleeve over his hand as he opened the door. The coffee in the cup holder had been knocked over. There was hair on the floor and blood on the edge of the door. Without his kit, he couldn't collect evidence, but at first glance he could tell that Sara had fought back.

What time was it? Warrick glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. Ten fucking o'clock.

"Brilliant," Warrick muttered. He'd been out for two hours and Sara was missing. And what's worse, no one probably knew about it yet. Trying not to think about the spinning in his skull, Warrick jogged over to the crime lab and ran in the doors, banging on the desk.

"Where's Gil Grissom?" he demanded of the day shift secretary.

She turned to a clip board and ran a pen down the page. "Erm…"

"_Now_ would be nice," Warrick snapped impatiently.

She frowned at him. "There's no need to be rude, sir—I think he's out in the field right now, let me see…"

"Field, what field?" Warrick asked blinking. "He was working the Sanders case. The field's been covered."

Something seemed to dawn on the secretary. "Oh yes, that's right. He went to the hospital about thirty minutes ago. Greg Sanders was going into cardiac arrest."

"He _what_?!" Warrick yelled at the secretary. _Great,_ he thought to himself, _things just keep getting worse and worse_.

"Yeah, um…" The secretary tried to recall the details. "They found phen something or other in his system, it put a strain on his heart…"

"Phen what, Phentermine… Phen…" Warrick recalled Greg had been delusional on the phone with Nick. "Phen—Phencyclidine?"

"Yeah, that sounds right," the secretary nodded.

"Angel dust…" Warrick muttered. "Shit." He bit his lip and looked at the ceiling. He then slammed his hands on the reception desk and looked at the secretary.

"Alright, listen here… Sally," he read off her name plate. "Is Captain Brass on duty right now? Detective Curtis? Vega? Vartann? Anyone?"

"Sam Vega's in 104," Sally replied.

"Good," said Warrick. "Because I need to file a missing person's report stat. Can you page him for me?"

"Sure thing," Sally said.

In the meantime, Warrick pulled out his cell phone and dialed Grissom immediately. He answered on the third ring. "Grissom—" Warrick began, already sounding frantic. "How's Greg? What happened?"

"PCP, Warrick," Grissom replied, sounding angry. "Large dose of it, too. His heart can't take it."

"Will he make it?" Warrick asked with bated breath.

Grissom didn't answer for a long time. "It'll be a miracle if he does, Warrick," he replied. "How did you know? I only just got the call from the hospital."

"I'm at the lab," Warrick explained. "It's about Sara." When he received no verbal response from Grissom, Warrick continued. "Listen, Griss, I was gonna take good care of her, I swear to God. I was in the middle of convincing her to let me shadow her, make sure she got home OK, and then there was nothing. When I woke up, I had a nasty bump on my head and she was _gone_, Griss. I don't know where she is."

More silence on Grissom's part until he finally cursed loudly and shamelessly. So much that Warrick had to hold the phone away from his ear to avoid going deaf.

"Grissom… I'm so sorry," Warrick was saying.

Grissom seemed to calm down as he sighed. "I can't be at two places at once," he whispered. "Warrick, do me a favor and let Ecklie know. He'll have the whole day shift on this case. _Our guys stay off it_, do you hear me? That includes you."

"But Grissom—"

"No," Grissom interrupted harshly. "I mean it. It's not our shift. Let them take the reins."

"But it's our _girl_," Warrick protested.

"Believe me," Grissom replied. "I know that better than anyone."

"And what are you going to do?" Warrick asked.

"I'm going to stay here, with Greg," Grissom answered, as though it were obvious.

"Grissom, what if he doesn't—"

"If anything, Warrick," Grissom interrupted. "God owes us a miracle right now."

Warrick couldn't help but let a small smile tug at his lips. He saw Vega turning down the hall. "OK," he said. "Talk to you later Grissom." He hung up the phone and looked at Vega. Two simple words said everything to him. "Sara's gone."

"Define 'gone,'" Vega said, eyes wide.

"Just… gone, man," Warrick reiterated. "Ripped out of her own car. There's blood and maybe some hair… but listen, I know who did it, it was that fucking bastard Aleksandr Volkov, if you could just—"

"No, no, no," Vega was saying, shaking his head. "It's not your shift, Warrick, stay away from this case…" He looked around and saw a blonde woman walking by and caught her shoulder. "Lana," he said suddenly. "You're on this."

"But I have a B&E over in—"

"I don't care," Vega interrupted sharply. "This case is top priority. Sara Sidle from graveyard has just been abducted right from the parking lot. I need you on the case."

"Am I supposed to know who that is?" Lana asked.

"No," Vega said. "Which is what makes you perfect for the job. Her car is the Prius in the lot outside, Warrick will show you which. In the meantime, I'll tell Ecklie."

"Sam, I really think that I could—"

But Vega wouldn't let Warrick get a word out. "Not your shift, Warrick. It's Lana's shift. She runs the show. You got it?"

Warrick gritted his teeth reluctantly and nodded. "Got it," he said. "But it's my girl, and I want her back safe, you hear?"

Lana put a tender hand on Warrick's shoulder. "I promise you," she said, "I'm one of the best day shift's got."

Warrick wasn't satisfied with this. "She's not working it alone, is she?" he asked Vega.

"I'll get Thompson on it, too," Lana said to Vega, answering Warrick's question. "He was just hanging out in the break room trying to avoid work."

"Try tracking her cell phone," Warrick said suddenly.

Vega nodded. "Lana, get A/V on it. I'm going to tell Ecklie now. Warrick—" He looked at the night shift CSI. "I promise, we'll do our best."

Warrick wished to protest more, but knew there was nothing he could do, so he simply nodded and put Sara's life in the hands of the day shift.

* * *

Archie's eyes were tired as he waited for the map to load. He reached for his coffee and yawned at the same time. His eyes were beginning to sting and he was getting a headache from looking at screens all day. Dimly, he thought he should change his contacts. He had been about to go home when Lana had found him in the hall and told him about Sara. Archie had immediately volunteered to run the trace on her cell number and see if GPS could locate her. 

Staring at the screen, he almost regretted it.

Yesterday, he had been asked to come in early because swing shift had been short handed. And now, he was staying late because he had to figure out what had happened to Sara. But figuring out what happened to Sara wasn't as easy as he had originally thought. GPS had ended up giving him the parking lot. After Archie spent twenty minutes checking for glitches, it occurred to him that this was because Sara had left her phone in the car. He then had to go up and ask Warrick, who was still hanging around, for Sara's pager number to see if he could get a fix on that instead.

The map was taking its sweet time to load. Archie didn't even realize he'd been leaning on his hand until his head slipped and hit the table, giving him a sharp wakeup call as he shot up so fast he knocked his chair over backwards.

He rubbed the back of his head as he got up, picking the chair up too, and silently promised himself never to stay up for thirty-six hours straight ever again.

By the time he sat down again, the map had loaded and a little red dot blinked at him. Archie grinned triumphantly as one hand fumbled for the phone and he called Lana. 


	13. Broken

_**Author's Note:**_ Heavy stuff dealt with in this chapter. Written solely for an angst/dramatic effect. Sorry if you don't like it. Having trouble with "Phoenix." It may not be up for a while, if I decide to continue it. The song, it's, uh... what I've been listening to, and quite metaphorically applicable to Sara's situation. That's the English major in me making something from nothing. Feel free to ignore it. Also, to clarify (although I love it when my notes are misinterpreted because it keeps things suspenseful), just because this doesn't end "satisfactorily" doesn't mean it's not necessarily a HAPPY ending. Just that it still has some loose ends that are tied up in the upcoming sequel. Hopefully. I'm making myself stick with the ideas I have so I don't include any new ones and make "Phoenix" longer than it needs to be.

* * *

I try to stay on top of you  
To hold your body down  
Your shaking seems to hinder  
Every grasp that I have found 

Moving every inch around me  
To defuse your private bomb  
I stretch myself surrounding  
And protecting you from harm

I use a wallet for your mouth  
So when you bite you will not bleed  
I drilled a wire through my cheek  
And let it down and out my sleeve

And now you're pulling out the best of me  
Yeah which never ever comes  
This wires all thats left of me  
And its hooked within my gums

Now crawling I position myself  
Below your broken wings  
I lift your feathered left arm  
Where you hide your heart from me

I never noticed it was swollen  
With the touch of brutal pain  
I never knew a heart could live inside  
The rust from all your rain

"Drilled A Wire Through My Cheek," _Blue October_

* * *

There was a loud shrill noise ringing in her ears, like feedback from speakers too close to a microphone. Her face hurt. She vaguely remembered fighting someone, until she was pistol whipped in the face. That might explain the pain. 

Slowly, she tried to move her arms and realized she couldn't. They were spread apart and tied to something. She was sprawled across something soft. She tried to move her legs, but they were similarly incapacitated, also spread out. She opened her eyes and regretted it instantly as the bright lights made a wave of nausea wash over her. A miniature sun was blazing down on her in the form of a white spotlight focused on her face at the foot of the bed. There was a TV screen in the corner of the room. It was playing something on mute but she couldn't see what it was.

Her ears were still ringing. She was freezing cold and gasped when she looked down at herself. Her cheeks flushed red with humiliation as she realized that her clothes were gone. She was lying spread-eagled on a bed. She twisted and turned, trying to break loose or hide herself from whatever prying eyes she was sure were watching over her.

The spot light dimmed and her eyes focused, the blurry images of the TV coming into sharp definition. Icy fear rushed through her body faster than the blood pumping in her veins. It was a rape tape. Filmed on the very same bed she was laying on, though the room looked a little different. Both Vera and Sasha Volkov seemed to be involved, as well as a young girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen. If Sara had been nauseous before, she didn't know what to call the feeling that churned in her stomach like fiery poison now. Vomit rose in her throat but she swallowed it again. It returned with a vengeance and she turned quickly to the side as it spewed from her mouth, dripping over the edge of the bed. Her breathing was quick and ragged, the stench of her own stomach acids making her feel sick all over again.

She should have swallowed her pride and let Warrick follow her home instead of arguing. Maybe then Sasha wouldn't have had time to attack.

Warrick… What had happened to him? He'd been hit by Sasha. Sara briefly wondered if he was alright, if he had woken up, if someone had found him. If any of those answers were affirmative, that meant that they knew she was missing. Which was more than she could have said for Greg hours ago. She couldn't think of Greg now, not in her current state, frazzled and scared, humiliated and dirty. What had happened to Greg was bad enough, but what was to become of her? Before, they had been together, able to endure _together_. They both knew if the other hadn't been there to reassure them, they both would have lost their sanity. Now, they were both alone, and twice as scared. Sara never imagined there was any person in the world that could hurt her worse than Ryan Woodward, until she met to Volkovs.

"Enjoying the show?"

That hideous accent slithered between his vowels and around her neck, threatening to constrict. Sara burst into frantic sobs. "Please…" she whispered. "Why can't you just kill me? Why… why all _this_?"

Aleksandr Volkov stepped out of the shadows and in front of the spotlight, casting a hideous silhouette onto the bed on which Sara lay. She couldn't see his face, but the outline of his visage was enough to make a hero weep in fear. "There are so many reasons," he answered her in a low, calm whisper. "First and foremost, you cost me my wife." His head turned to look at the TV and Sara instinctively followed his gaze and wish she hadn't. Vera was straddling the young girl, who was blindfolded, as she whipped her across the chest before leaning down and licking up the blood. "She was good at what she did. Beautiful and brilliant. A highly physical being… Shame I had to turn her in. And all because you didn't appreciate what I had done for you."

Sara still had some fight left in her as the fury temporarily overwhelmed her fear. "And what exactly _did_ you do for me, Sasha? Kidnap, torture and almost _kill_ the man I love?"

"I didn't lay a hand on Gil Grissom," Sasha said, his voice sounding confused. But Sara knew better. He was mocking her.

"How _dare_ you…" she hissed.

"Are you telling me…" Sasha said slowly, "that you would have preferred it _had_ been Grissom? Because in that case, I can understand your annoyance. If you wish, I could even finish the job right now and—"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Sara snapped, straining at her restraints like a dog chained to a fence. "You leave him _alone_! You leave them _both_ alone! I should never have said anything to you in the first place."

"Please," Sasha scoffed, his shoulders shaking with his laughter. "As if it wasn't obvious already. I'd been watching you, Sara Sidle. If there's one thing I do well, it's reading people. I saw the tension and the thrill. I saw it all."

A low growl rolled in the back of Sara's throat as her stomach filled with unadulterated rage. "Kill me," she ordered. "Slit my fucking throat, but I swear to God you shit-eating maggot, if you _ever_ even think of touching Gil Grissom or Greg Sanders again, I will haunt you so bad you'll wish you'd _never_ messed with me, are we clear? They're good people and I love them more than your twisted mind could _ever_ comprehend. I've made my fair share of mistakes, but I am _through_ apologizing, least of all to _you_. So go ahead and kill me."

Sasha laughed a slow, wicked chortle. "Oh Sara…" he said, sounding amused. "I have far greater plans for you than simply _killing_ you."

Sara said nothing, her breathing low and deep. Sasha turned slightly, and she saw the light catch his eye. His gaze, she noted with sickening dread, had come to rest on her bare chest. She turned away, unable to look at him as her face burned in furious shame. She felt Woodward's hands creeping over her now, and it made her body shutter involuntarily. Finally, she heard movement and noticed that Sasha had taken his eyes off of her and went to the opposite corner of the bed where Sara saw a video camera positioned on a tripod. He looked into the viewfinder and she saw him grin.

"There are other reasons, too," he told her, answering her previous question. "Like the fact that I do not kill people, Sara. I never have in my life." He looked up at her and grinned. "I much prefer to revel in their mental torment. I've driven many a man mad before my wife takes the knife to them. And that, _dusha_, is my forte. But I will make a promise to you. You will live. And you will be my last. My greatest masterpiece. The ungrateful adulteress, whose masks and lies have been stripped away so her secrets lay exposed for the world to see. Poetic, don't you think?"

Sara struggled against her bonds again but knew it would do no good. "You _will_ go to jail this time, Volkov. And you won't be able to pay your way out now. Not with all this evidence. You'll get the needle."

"No I won't," Sasha said, walking over to her now. "Vera and I will be set free long before that happens."

Sara wasn't sure what he meant. "You'll burn in hell."

"I don't believe in hell," Sasha said, his body eclipsing the bright white spotlight once more. "I believe we have a brief moment of consciousness and then it is gone and we return to nothingness. I am unafraid of death. It would be nice to stop thinking. To stop being aware of all the sordid ignorance of the human race. I am the world's brightest intellectual. I have realized that the only beautiful thing in this world, Sara, _dusha_, is pain. Silken blood glistening on pale white skin. Tears magnifying terrified brown eyes." He gestured at her. "The female form. The perfect shade of red that rises in the ashamed cheeks of a woman unveiled. Pain is the only way we can be sure that we are still alive."

He pulled out a kitchen knife which glinted in the light and ran a finger over it until it punctured his skin. A bead of red blossomed out of the wound like a rose in frozen grounds and he put the finger to his lips. "If you were a victim of my wife's," Sasha began, "I might have requested to write a poem."

Sara gagged. "What?!"

His eyes flickered to the knife. "A love poem," he elaborated. "Carve it into your back. In fact, I may still. It wouldn't kill you. It would be beautiful. Crimson ink on an ivory canvas."

"You're sick," Sara spat.

"I didn't initially wish to hurt you, _dusha_," Sasha said with a shrug. "But when you left me wifeless… Well, let's just say I needed to fill the void she left in my heart." He turned and the light glinted off his fang-like teeth. "Were you as serious about being a surrogate mother as I was?"

Sara shivered and turned her gaze away from him. "If you love pain so much, why _don't_ you just kill me?"

"Oh I can't do that, _dusha_," Sasha replied. "I specialize in a more intellectual form of torment than my wife. I go for the heart. And besides, one death is enough for me in a day."

"Death…?"

Sasha laughed a twisted snicker. "Your lover. Greg Sanders."

"Greg isn't dead," Sara muttered.

"I heard on the news he is," Sasha replied. "Poor boy. Heart attack, don't you know. What a tragedy."

"H-heart attack?" Sara stammered.

Sasha nodded slowly. "The tortured CSI dies of a drug-induced heart attack. Yes, I believe that was the headline."

"You're _lying_!" Sara wailed, her voice filled to the brim with anguish and wrath. She refused to believe him.

"Oh, _dusha_," Sasha said, shaking his head. "I wish I was."

"Son of a bitch!" Sara screamed, her voice high-pitched and laced with hysterics. "You killed him, you fucking _killed_ him!"

"I didn't kill him," Sasha reminded her. "My good wife Vera did. And now, she's in prison and I am left here with you."

Any will to fight quickly left Sara as the truth slowly sank in. With glassy brown eyes she stared up at the black ceiling, her mind dribbling out her ears. Greg was dead. Greg was dead… because of her. There was nothing left. Her skin felt clammy and filthy. She had blood on her hands. Greg was dead. There was no point to anything anymore. He had stolen everything from her, leaving her only with her shattered life.

But she found something to fight for and narrowed her eyes as he climbed onto the bed. As the spotlight illuminated him, Sara realized for the first time, with a lurch or revulsion, that he was naked too. She knew now that she had to fight for whatever dignity she had left. She wouldn't be a victim again. Every ounce of her refused that notion. She wouldn't accept anything less. She had to stop him. It was her last chance of hope. If she succeeded in stopping him, then she could survive, even if Greg really was dead. She could be content with the knowledge that she had foiled the man who had conspired against Greg, and who had cost Greg his life. _She_ wasn't to blame for Greg's death. He was. And she'd be damned if he ever touched her.

He lay down next to her and grabbed her chin forcing her to look at him. "Think of me as just another one of your many lovers, Sara."

"Get away from me," she spat.

He laughed. "I bet you say that to all the guys." He reached out and caressed her stomach with the back of his hand. Sara felt the nausea return and closed her eyes. The wheels turned in her head as she tried to think how she could stop the inevitable. If she didn't, she would surely go mad. He smiled grimly. "Ah…" he said, pleased. "No. Your back is too difficult to reach now. I would have to untie you. No, this will do nicely."

He pulled out the knife. Sara gritted her teeth as he carved into the right side of her torso, just above her thigh. She could have sworn she felt the knife clang against her pelvic bone. He continued to carve something down the top of her thigh. She gasped as the pain rang through her like a gong until finally he was finished and she was crying, her eyes closed tight.

He licked the knife. "Please, Sara, you offend me. Don't you wish to know what I said?"

She didn't open her eyes, and she didn't speak, she simply shook her head. His hand slithered up her stomach and over to her breast, his groping painfully gentle.

"Woodward…" she breathed, her eyes shut tight as the tears trailed down her temples and into her hair. "Please, don't…"

"Who is this man?" Sasha asked, sitting up. He didn't withdraw his unwelcome touch. "You said his name when we first met, I am curious. Another spurned lover perhaps?"

Sara began to choke on her fear and she coughed, but didn't answer him.

"Tell me, _dusha_," Sasha pressed, his hand grasping her hip as he rolled on top of her. It made her gag. "I wish to know of all the men you've been with, Sara Sidle."

Sara let out another helpless sob. "Please just get _off_ of me…" She tried to bring her hip up, to push him off without the use of her arms and legs. She still refused to let him do this to her. She wasn't going to be a victim again. And even as she thought this, the blood trickled down her thigh.

But he disobeyed her request as he leaned forward, his breath disgustingly moist against her earlobe. "Tell me who this Woodward is," he hissed.

But in a way this was perfect, because in an effort to get near to her ear, he had placed his own ear right in front of her mouth. "I _will_!" Sara screamed at the top of her lungs, making Sasha recoil backwards. "If you _get off of me_!"

Sasha chuckled as he sat up, still straddling her, but he nodded obligingly and rolled off to the space next to her. His eyes flickered to the camera. "She still has a spirit to break, this one," he said to the camera. He smirked at her. "And I know exactly how to do it."

Sara was breathing heavily as she glared at him with as much malice as she could muster. "You stay the _fuck_ away from me."

"You said you'd tell me who this Woodward is," Sasha whispered, contrasting her angry tone. He reached out and stroked her hair. She pulled her head away from his grasp.

"He was a pathetic son of a bitch," Sara said coolly. "Had a grudge against a friend of mine and used Greg and I to get back at him. He was repugnant and he was weak, but I'd take him over you _any day_ you pitiful mother fucker."

Slowly, Sasha nodded. "He raped you," he said impassively.

Sara looked away from him. "No…" she whispered.

"He tried," Sasha amended his statement. "Didn't he?"

Sara began to cry again as she realized how helpless she really was. He was going to do it, and she could do absolutely nothing to stop it. "Greg…" she whimpered, helpless, wishing that he was alive and present. He would have known the perfect thing to say to calm her down, to reassure her. He would have known what to do to make Sasha stop. She wished a phone would ring, anything to distract him from his intentions. _I won't let him hurt you…_ Except now, he was dead, and she was alone, and he was going to hurt her regardless of Greg's constant assurances. He was going to hurt her no matter what. He already had hurt her, more deeply than he or anyone would ever know. He killed Greg, slaughtered him like a sweet lamb, and it was all her fault. "Oh my God, Greg, I'm so sorry…" _What a setback_, she though to herself. _And just when we were beginning to do so much better_… "Please…" she begged for what she promised herself would be the last time. "Please, just— just let me go…"

Sasha Volkov sat and looked at her for a very long time before a slow sneer twisted his features.

* * *

Catherine walked down the hall towards the exam room the nurse had specified and knocked on the door before opening it. Grissom was rolling down his sleeve as the doctor gathered up a few blood bags, giving Catherine a welcome smile. 

Grissom looked up at her, seeming slightly surprised to see her but not very.

"I asked if Gil Grissom visited Greg Sanders," Catherine began, "and would you imagine my surprise when they told me Gil Grissom is a _patient_." She pulled up a chair and sat down across from Grissom, her eyes impassive as she stared into his.

Grissom was nonchalant. "They were running low on O neg," he replied. "It's my blood type. Figured I'd give a little."

"And… Greg's too?" Catherine guessed. Grissom closed his eyes, but nodded in answer. "Gil…"

"Catherine," Grissom interrupted sharply. "Is it because I pushed her away? Or… because she felt I wouldn't understand her and what she went through? Did she think I didn't care? That I didn't…" Grissom frowned in thought as he contemplated of all the possibilities. He gave up and shook his head. "I guess it doesn't matter now," he said with a sigh. "Now that she's gone again."

Catherine stiffened at his words. "'Gone again?' Grissom, what do you mean?"

Grissom looked up at her. "Warrick didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what, Gil?" Catherine asked, her voice alert.

Grissom shook his head, his eyes wide. "Sara," he told her. "He took her. The son of a bitch took my Sara… Gave Warrick a good bump on the head too from what I hear."

"He attacked Warrick too?" Catherine was stunned at this guy's gross audacity. "I'll kill him," she resolved, her eyes wide. "Why didn't you tell me right away? Does Nick know? Am I the only one out of the loop?"

"I told Warrick not to involve you on the case," Grissom said. "Day shift is on it. Ecklie called, said it's top priority. But I never told him not to tell you guys. If he didn't call you, I'll bet Nick doesn't know either."

"That's going to change," Catherine said, whipping out her cell phone and calling Nick's number.

"He won't take it well," Grissom warned her.

"Believe me," Catherine told him as the phone rang. "I don't think _I'm_ taking it very well either… Nick?"

"Catherine? Uh… what time is it?" Nick sounded like she'd just woken him up. In any other instance, Catherine might have felt guilty, but not today.

"Nick, Sara's gone. We think Sasha—"

"What?" Nick interrupted, sounding wide awake.

Catherine was shaking her head, feeling helpless. "My thoughts exactly." Grissom shot her a look which she read like a book. "Uh, listen, Nick… Don't do anything stupid, alright? With Greg in the hospital and Sara gone, the last thing we need to worry about is you going off and being rash. Promise me you'll stay put."

"Cath, if you're worried I'm going to suddenly confess to all these murders Vera Volkova is blamed for, you've got another thing coming."

Catherine couldn't help but smile bitterly at the tasteless joke. "No, Nick, I know that. I mean don't look for her. Ecklie's got day shift working on it, if they find anything

we'll let you know."

"How long has she been missing?" Nick asked.

Catherine looked at Grissom. "When did Warrick wake up, Gil?" Catherine asked.

"Warrick?!" Nick exclaimed. "What happened to Warrick?"

"Warrick called me at ten," Grissom replied. "Said the attack happened shortly after they were both about to go home."

"Catherine!" Nick was saying. "What happened to Warrick?!"

"Warrick was hit on the head," Catherine replied. "I think he was with Sara before she was taken. I don't know, I don't have all the details."

"First Greg, then Sara and Warrick?!" Nick exclaimed. "Oh, you better keep this guy locked up because if I ever get my hands on him…"

"I feel the same way," Catherine interrupted.

"Where is she, Catherine?" Nick snarled angrily. "We gotta find her."

Catherine sighed, touched by his ferocity. "I don't know, Nicky."

Nick hesitated before speaking again, this time in defeated terms. "I'm sorry, Catherine."

Catherine had an eerie sense run through her. "What are you apologizing for, Nick?"

"I can't make any promises," Nick replied before hanging up.

"Dammit…" Catherine muttered, staring at her phone. She looked up at Grissom. "He's going to do something stupid. I know it."

"I warned you," Grissom said flatly.

Catherine sighed. "This is just… incredibly… _fucked up_."

"Mm," Grissom agreed dismally.

"No, I mean really," Catherine said. "Ryan Woodward was one thing. But he was just a nutcase with a grudge compared to this hellish couple."

"I should have told her that I love her," Grissom said suddenly making Catherine look up.

"She knows that," Catherine tried to say soothingly.

"No," Grissom said, shaking his head. He was staring at something off in the distance that Catherine couldn't see. "She doesn't. She asked for me to hold her. Tell her everything would be alright. But I was so… _angry_ with her…"

"Sh…" Catherine hushed, rubbing his arm to calm him down. "She knows that you love her, Grissom. Even I heard you tell her a few times at the office when you thought I wasn't listening."

"Ever since Woodward…" Grissom said as if Catherine hadn't spoken. "I feel like I've been holding her so tight she couldn't breathe. But I was so afraid of losing her again, I just… I don't know what to do, Catherine. I feel… lost."

Catherine rose to her feet and threw her arms around Grissom's neck. "I don't know what to say to you, Grissom," she said softly. "Because this time… I feel as lost as you do." Slowly, Catherine felt Grissom's arms wrap around her back as he embraced her lightly. Neither one shed a tear. At this point, both knew it wouldn't help if they did. 


	14. The Video Tape

_**Author's Note:**_ Early(ish) update today on account of it's Easter... If you don't celebrate Easter... then have a nice normal April Sunday. A nice and juicy chapter for you, and it answers some of your questions. Enjoy. Oh, and please review. It's nice to know what people think. :o). Oh, and to those of you who've been loyally reviewing (PisceanPal23, necira, Kegal, ambie176, Kristafied, indusgirl1313, ilovekc, tefla, and others) you guys make my day. I'm so not above fishing for reviews. Even though I don't hold my chapters hostage for them, I still love getting them,

* * *

I should've had my hammer and a few rusty spikes  
to nail you on a wall and use bottles to catch your blood  
and display you for the neighbors so they know your time had come.  
And I'd drink your blood and feel it dripping down my throat  
as it heads for my heart.  
And as your body sags and the stench rises in vain,  
the people on the street are collecting in dismay.  
Before your eyes your head lifts towards the sky  
and that's the last thing they'll remember of you.  
You've become a ghost.  
You're floating somewhere in between  
the waking world and a landscape of dreams.  
Well it's nothing but dying.  
You've got a grenade stuck in your teeth and you're pulling at the pin.  
You're an illusion, just a shadow flickering underneath the sun. 

"As Your Ghost Takes Flight,"_ Saves the Day_

* * *

The ringing phone jolted Archie out of his napping. He grasped around for it before he found it. 

"Y'ello?" he said sleepily.

"Arch, it's Nick. Warrick said you were working Sara's case?"

"Uh…" It took Archie a moment to remember. "Oh yeah, I gave the results to Vega and Lana Hancock—she's dayshift. Uh… about half an hour ago."

"Where are they headed?" Nick asked.

"5004 Spanish Heights," Archie replied. "But they're already—" But Nick had already hung up. Shrugging, Archie folded his arms and fell back asleep.

* * *

Nick got to the house a while after the police did. On his way over, he had called Catherine, Warrick and Grissom to tell him what Archie had said. He parked somewhere down the street and jogged over to the house. From the crime scene tape he could see Vega crouching down by Sara, who was sitting on the steps hugging her knees staring straight ahead of her. He ducked beneath the tape and jogged over to the house. Vega straightened and held a hand out, pulling Nick away from Sara. Nick was angry. 

"What?" he growled. "I want to talk to her."

"She's not talking," Vega told him.

Nick still didn't understand. "Just let me talk to her for five seconds, man, I swear—"

"No," Vega interrupted harshly. "She's not _talking_, Nick. To _anyone_. She won't even move. I don't even think she knows we're here. We had a doctor come over here to check her out. Her pupils won't dilate, she doesn't respond to any external stimuli… Nick, she's catatonic."

For a moment, Nick seemed catatonic himself. "What did he do to her, Sam? Can you tell me that?" Vega seemed to bite his lip, deciding whether or not to answer Nick's question. "Sam, please— don't bull shit me, man, tell me what happened."

Vega nodded slowly as he glanced at Sara, still sitting on the steps. "Alright," he said. "But you're not gonna like this."

Vega nodded at the door and Nick followed him inside where a blonde girl Nick almost recognized swabbed a door handle which looked to have blood on it. She looked up at him with green eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, but didn't smile. She walked over to him and extended her hand. "Lana Hancock. Dayshift."

"Nick Stokes," Nick replied automatically, taking her hand. "Graveyard."

"She was on your team?" There was an inflection at the end of her statement, but Nick was sure she already knew that. He nodded anyway. "Hm. Well, this is a tough case. Personally, I don't think you should see this. Vega?"

"It'll be OK," Vega assured her. He looked at Nick and studied him a moment before adding, "He can take it."

"I hear another of your guys is in the hospital," Lana said. "What happened last night?"

"God knows," Nick said, shaking his head.

She turned to Vega. "You show him the tape?"

"Tape, what tape?" Nick demanded, turning to Vega himself.

Vega looked from Lana to Nick, flashing Lana an obvious look with wide eyes and raised eyebrows that screamed,_ 'Why did you bring up the fucking tape?'_ He sighed as he looked at Nick. "You don't want to see it," he said. "I'll show you everything else, but you're not going to see that tape, Nick."

"Hell _yes_ I'm going to see that tape," Nick insisted, raising his voice slightly. "Why? What's on it? What did he do to her?"

Vega took Nick by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Nick! This isn't a stranger here that you can just distance yourself from, this is _Sara_. If you see that tape, you will _not_ like what you see and you will _not_ take it well. This isn't your case. You're lucky I even let you on the property. Just _go home_ and I'll call you and let you know what's going on."

"Can I at least sit with Sara?" Nick pleaded. "Can I at least talk to her?"

Vega sighed. "Fine," he said. "Do what you can, but I'm telling you that it won't do much. She's scared, Nick, and she was alone, and she couldn't deal with it, so she's locked herself up in her own head in order to keep from losing it."

"Couldn't deal with _what_?" Nick spat. "You're not _telling_ me something?"

Vega just shook his head. "And I won't," he told him. "Not if you keep acting like this."

Nick grit his teeth and tried hard not to punch Vega in the face. Vega noticed that his fists were clenched and took this as a warning. "Go out on the porch," Vega told him. "Sit with her. Talk to her. Maybe your presence will jar her out of her stupor." Nick nodded and headed for the door. "But Nick?" He stopped and turned to look at Vega. "Don't get your hopes up."

Regardless of the warning, Nick already had. He crouched down next to Sara and tried to make her look at him.

"Sara…" he whispered softly, in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "Can you hear me? It's Nick. I'm here, girl."

There was no response.

Nick swallowed and kept trying. "Remember… what I told you? Back at the other house, what I told you about just surviving? You gotta keep trying to remember how to live again, girl. Sara… you gotta keep fighting. Keep fighting for us."

He reached out a hand to grasp hers. She didn't do anything in response, so he enclosed his fingers around her and squeezed hard, vowing somewhere in his head that he would never let her go again. He looked down at the pavement, then up at her pale and lifeless face. She looked almost like a porcelain doll, painted white with glassy brown eyes that did nothing but stare straight ahead of her.

"When I heard he took you…" Nick began, "I swear I was gonna ride on over here, kick down the door, and be your knight in shining armor. In my head, I had it played out all right. I was going to show up just before he was going to lay a finger on you, like you were the damsel tied to the railroad tracks and he was the villain with the crazy mustache, and I was going to stop him, and cut you loose, and everything was going to have a happy ending. Or at least, a happier ending…"

He sighed. "Greg's still at the hospital. I suppose you'll be joining him soon—" Nick choked back a sob, but forced himself to continue. "He's gonna be alright, Sara," he said. "The doctors were able to stabilize him after the heart attack and detox his system. That's what Grissom said when I called him on my way over. He wants to see you too, girl. They all do. They want to see that you're OK. So can you do me a favor and smile pretty for them? God, Sara, do I love to see your smile."

He stopped talking, in the hopes that something he'd said would jar something in her, but she did nothing. Nick could barely tell if she was breathing, but if he stayed perfectly still, he could hear the quiet, rhythmic breaths. He could feel the pulse in her wrist. She may have been alive by all physical standards, but her spirit was dead and sinking quickly like a rock in an oceanic grave.

Nick couldn't help it as the tears rolled down his cheeks and her stroked Sara's hair, pulling her head into his chest as he wrapped his arms around her just to reassure himself that she was still there. "I promise, Sara, that you're safe now. Whatever he did to you… I'm going to kill him. I swear, I'm going to kill him myself, just like I killed Woodward. Dammit… I didn't save you from one monster to have you be destroyed by another for Christ's sake!"

He sniffed and stopped crying as his rage overwhelmed his fear and regret. He let her go and straightened up, looking down at his broken friend whom he had always considered a sister. He thought about Greg, and the wounds he had sustained at the hands of the Volkovs, and his fury intensified. They had fucked with his family, and now he was going to make sure they paid the price.

He spun on his heal and marched inside, looking around the white house, which was completely spotless, save for a blood trail that seemed to cover almost every room of the first floor. And it was a big house. Next to each spot was a marker. He moved over toward Vega and Lana, who were looking at the bloody footprints. "He raped her, didn't he?" he demanded, making Vega jump and look at him.

Vega held up both his hands in an effort to calm him down. "Nick—"

"Where is he?" Nick interrupted. "Where is the bastard, I'm gonna kill him."

"Somebody beat you to it." Vega nodded at a door, which opened to reveal the dayshift coroner and another CSI carrying out a body in a black bag. Nick walked over to it and looked down before looking back over his shoulder at Vega.

"COD?"

"Nick…" Vega said, walking over to him and taking him by the arm.

"You shot him, didn't you?" Nick asked.

Vega opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by another familiar voice calling out Nick's name. Both the detective and Nick turned at it and saw Grissom in the doorway.

"Sara's not responding to us," Grissom said, looking very pale. "What's going on here?"

Vega sighed and rolled his eyes as he turned away from the graveyard CSIs and back to Lana. Nick shook his head. "I don't know, Vega's reluctant to tell us anything. Apparently, there's some sort of tape, but he won't let me see it."

Catherine and Warrick entered behind Nick, both looking very solemn. Vega turned to Lana and nudged her in the ribs.

"You just _had_ to mention the tape," he muttered under his breath.

Lana merely shrugged. "You _said_ he could take it!"

"What tape?" Grissom asked Vega directly. Vega sighed and glared at Lana before nodding.

"Well, I guess you should see the basement," he said, resignedly. He waved at the four of them to follow.

"Please don't step on the blood trail!" Lana called after them.

Warrick nodded their collective understanding. "We're CSIs too, you know," he assured her.

Vega pushed open the door and went down first, followed by the others. There were bloody bare footprints on every step, as well as a few blood drops, each already with a marker. Finally, they reached the bottom. It seemed to be the only furnished room in the house. There was a bed with ropes tied to the posts and a camera positioned at one corner, a spotlight on the other.

Vega walked over to a shelf filled with videos and pulled one out handing it to Grissom. "There are over a dozen tapes here," he said. "Some of them are just Sasha and Vera, being just as violent with each other as they are in all the others. But most of them involve a third person, sometimes male, sometimes female. One of the worst ones involves a sixteen-year-old girl from Albuquerque who is still under missing persons in New Mexico. I guess she's technically not missing anymore."

Grissom's eyes were on the bed as he handed the tape to Catherine. He walked over to it, seeing the large blood pool on the ground next to it. He looked at the camera. "He recorded it, didn't he?" he said to no one in particular. "What he did to her. It's in that camera."

Slowly, Vega nodded. "Grissom, I don't really think—"

"Put it on," Grissom interrupted, his eyes still on the camera. "I want to know why my girl isn't talking anymore."

With a reluctant nod, Vega walked over to the camera, set up the display and hit the play button…

* * *

_Three hours earlier…_

For an eternity, Sara was dead to the world, trying desperately to imagine she was somewhere else entirely. Trying to ignore the pain as he ripped into her with thrust after thrust. After a while, her imagination failed her and she was thrown into the horrible reality of the moment as he slobbered on her neck and breasts. She felt him squirming inside of her like a worm. He was relentless in his attacks. Sara had never been more revolted with herself in her life. He clawed at her, he nipped at her, he made her feel like a filthy rag he was using to mop up his insatiable appetite. With every new thrust came a fresh wave of pain and humiliation. He had entered her raw, with barely any preparation, and she wondered absently how badly she was bleeding. She tried to clench her thighs in a last ditch effort to deter him, but her feet were still tied to the corners of the bed and there was nothing left that she could do physically or verbally to stop him.

Not that she didn't try.

She started screaming, as loud as she could, despite her hoarse dry throat. Maybe if she was lucky she could blow out his ear drum, but her panicking screams only seemed to egg him on as his thrusts became faster and more vigilant until he finally climaxed, half inside of her and the rest he expelled onto her stomach. 

When it had finally ended, she stared blindly at the ceiling as her chest rose and fell with every breath she took. She found she was still clenching her teeth. She didn't relax her jaw. Her hair was tangled with sweat and tears. As she felt the water trickle through the crevasses in her scalp, she knew his slime was still all over her, dripping down her stomach and thighs, mixing with her own blood. She was covered in his filthy fluids. Saliva, blood and semen all fused together into one giant messy soup and Sara was the bowl which contained it all. It had been violent and it had been messy and he had neglected to clean up after himself. She still felt his fingers, crawling like spiders across her skin.

She felt the bed move beneath her as Sasha stood up and pulled on his pants. She couldn't help but roll her eyes. She felt bitter and used as she lay there, lifeless. He had stolen her last shred of dignity and now she was jaded and cynical. There was nothing left to be ashamed of anymore. He had made sure of that. He looked at her over his shoulder and leered at her. She stared right back. He walked over to the camera.

"Don't turn it off." Her voice was dead and cold. She had never felt less human in her life. She wasn't the same person she'd been a few hours ago. And in a way, that gave her an advantage.

He paused and looked at her in amused curiosity. "Ready for another, _dusha_?"

She simply scoffed, glaring at him grimly. Sasha sighed as he walked over to the bed with a knife. For a moment, Sara hoped that he would slit her throat. But he didn't. He instead went for her hands and cut the ropes which bound them. First the left, then he climbed over her to cut the right. She rubbed her sore wrists, trying to start the blood flow again. She never took her eyes off Sasha as he cut her feet free.

This was exactly what she had been waiting for.

In a flash, Sara kicked upward, the knife flying out of Sasha's hand. She made a dive for it and snatched it off the floor. She didn't hesitate in her attack as she knocked him off his feet and slashed at him. She was vicious in her assault as she sliced at his face, his hands, and his groin, attacking the areas that most infuriated her. When she had sufficiently mutilated him, she took the knife and jammed it right through the heart. Knowing the body's anatomy really gave her an edge in murder. As the knife sank into his flesh, Sara frowned intently before twisting it ninety degrees to make sure he felt that last shock of hurt.

When she had finished, she was covered in blood and breathing hard. It was only after she stared into his cold dead eyes that she realized fully what she had done. With a gasp she stood up and dropped the knife with a clatter. She looked down at herself and her blood covered body. If she was dirty before, she was positively filthy now. Her eyes darted around the room. For the first time she was able to see where she was. Now that the spotlight wasn't shining in her eyes, she could see everything. Including the camera, which was pointed right at her.

She ignored that for now and focused on figuring out where she was. It was a basement of some sort. Concrete. She saw her clothes, folded neatly in a chair off to the side. She strode over to it and looked at them curiously, as though she'd forgotten what they were for. Ignoring them, she saw the stairs and ascended them, opening the door. She squinted and brought her arm over her eyes to protect them from the bright light that met them. She was in a house, and a large one at that. It was completely white and pristine with blue carpeting. There was no furniture. Just a big clean white house.

Sara trekked bloody footprints across the floor as she explored her surroundings curiously. She opened door after door until she finally found a bathroom. She stepped into the shower and turned it on. No water came out. Pausing only for a moment, Sara left the shower and tried the sink. No water. Nodding in understanding, she left the bathroom and found the dining room, which looked out into a vast backyard secluded by a tall hedge along the perimeter. In the center was a swimming pool.

Sara stepped outside and did a swan dive into the pool. She swam a few laps to get rid of the tension and the terror. She sank beneath the water and ran her hands through her hair, dislodging any dirt that may have been hiding there. As a CSI, she knew she couldn't get rid of everything. She would _never_ get rid of _everything_. But she could get rid of most of it. Even though his poison would always hide in her skin, in her hair, and course through her veins, she could still rid herself of most of it.

But she would never be clean again.

She climbed out of the pool and flipped back her wet hair. She went back into the basement and put on her clothes. She found a small makeup set open on a table in the basement, which seemed to be the only furnished room. There was a small hairbrush, which she used to untangle her mess of hair. She walked over to the camera and looked curiously into the lens before switching it off.

Finally, she climbed the basement stairs again and found the front door. She stepped outside and looked up at the sun. She didn't know what time it was. She didn't know where she was. It looked like a posh neighborhood. There was a "For Sale" sign out front with "SOLD" stapled across it. There was a car parked in the driveway. The nearest house was a good distance away as each one in the neighborhood seemed to have vast grounds surrounding them. Sara sat down on the stoop and hugged her knees to her chest staring off into space as she waited for an idea of what to do to come to her.

But no thoughts ever came.


	15. Grissom and Greg

_**Author's Note:**_ Ah, the awkward Grissom/Greg conversation... a _long_ time coming... Thanks all, so much for your reviews, and just a quick response to tefla: it amuses me that you thought of Buffy. The thought hadn't even occured to me until you mention it, and I'm a huge fan of that show. :o)

* * *

Greg's eyes snapped open and he was breathing hard as he stared up at the ceiling above his head. He had just awoken from the strangest nightmare… One which included his friends, and Woodward, and newspaper taxis… 

Wait. Why was there that pesky Beatles song playing over in his head?

Slowly, the details come back to him as he remembered Vera Volkova. The stab wound in his shoulder, the Kool-Aid, the cuts, his hand, Nick's voice in his head, Woodward coming back to life as a vampire, Sara…

He groaned at the memory and leaned his head back. He was parched and painfully panting for air. His lungs were aching like he had sucked in a mouth full of below zero air and its jagged molecules had scarred them. Every part of him ached without exception. His left hand was wrapped tightly in a bandage and he felt a splint up by his shoulder. So they had found him in time. Greg wondered for a moment if that was a good thing or not.

"Greg?"

He started at the sound of his name. He had thought he was alone. Painfully, he turned his head in the direction from which the voice had come. Grissom sat in a chair by his bed and had looked up from his book at Greg's moan. Greg smiled weakly at him.

"Hey, Grissom," he wheezed.

Grissom returned the smile, which was equally weak. He spoke in soft, gentle tones. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I went through a wood chipper," Greg replied. "But how are you?"

"The same," Grissom replied. "Maybe to a slightly lesser extent than you, though."

"Ah," said Greg, parodying a wise man. "Never underestimate your own feelings, Grissom-san."

Grissom nodded. "You're right," he admitted. "But I don't want to talk about me right now." His face grew serious. "You had a heart attack."

"I did?" Greg beamed. "How 'bout that. Let me guess— Nick jumped up on me from behind and _boom_, my ticker went off?"

But Grissom wasn't smiling anymore. "They thought it was high doses of PCP. But the amounts in your blood weren't high enough to cause a strain on your heart. It just reacted with some other drugs already in your system."

Greg's grin quickly faded as he looked at Grissom before turning away from him again, rolling over in the bed. He didn't want to talk about it, but he knew Grissom wouldn't leave it alone. At least he didn't have to look Grissom in the eye when he confronted him about his flaws. The last thing he'd ever wanted was for the man he respected most in the world to think him weak.

"Imipramine, Greg? Your records don't show a prescription for that."

"It's hard," Greg said, still refusing to look at Grissom, "just being… OK every day. It's no big deal. My ex-girlfriend Rachel is a psychiatrist, I asked her for a favor. Don't think she didn't do her job. She talked to me for a week before she even gave me one pill. She was very thorough. I just… I wanted it off the record. I didn't—" He broke himself off as he finally turned to look at Grissom with those sad brown eyes. "I didn't want you guys to know."

"Well your indiscretions could have cost you your _life_," Grissom said, sounding a little too cruel for comfort. "The doctors didn't know you had imipramine in your system! They were worrying about the blood loss, not internal chemical reactions. She slipped angel dust into your drink, Greg. It almost killed you."

"Angel dust, huh? For some reason I thought it was LSD or something… She kept singing _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_."

"Actually," Grissom said, "while the song is about a drug trip, it wasn't necessarily named after LSD."

"Go figure…" Greg muttered, staring at the ceiling.

"Greg, we came too close to losing you," Grissom said seriously. "_Again_."

"And yet, you didn't," Greg pointed out with a smile. "Face it, Grissom, you're stuck with me." Grissom sighed and ran his hand through his hair as he turned his back on Greg, shaking his head. Greg began to wonder if his joke had been in poor taste. "I… I didn't mean…"

"I know about you and Sara," Grissom said suddenly, his back to Greg.

He could have said anything else, and Greg would have handled it with a quip and a smile. He could have told Greg he was dying of Cancer, or that _Greg_ was dying of Cancer and Greg would have made a joke about cigarettes and microwaves. He could have said the world was going to explode in three hours and Greg would have told him to call in James Bond. He could have told Greg he was gay, and Greg would have offered to throw him a coming-out party with a male stripper. Grissom could have said anything, _anything…_ but that.

He knew now why Grissom was being so cold. He was torn between two poles: one of hating Greg for his betrayal, and one of hating him for almost dying and leaving them all alone. In the end, Grissom still hated him. It was just the reason that made the difference in how he treated Greg.

Greg stared down at the hospital sheets and bit his lip before looking up at Grissom's back again. "Grissom, I… I don't know what to say… I wanted to tell you. I really did, it wasn't right, and I know that, but it was a mistake, alright? She's yours. I _know_ she's yours. And I don't want her because she's got stars in her eyes for _you_, Grissom. What happened between us… Well, it was drunk sex which turned into consolation sex, and—you know, she's really amazing, I mean, I always imagined she'd be good, but _damn_—"

"Greg," Grissom interrupted. "You're digging a hole deep enough to reach China right now."

Greg pursed his lips. "Right," he said. "When I get nervous, I babble. You gotta stop me when I do that, else I just go right on. But what I'm trying to say here, Grissom, is that she's yours. And she will _always_ be yours. And even if she can't see that, I can. I've watched her fall in love with you over the past seven years even as I fell in love with her. She doesn't love me, Grissom. She only loves the _thought_ of me. What she feels, it's… _flattery_ mixed with a… a strong friendship mixed with the bond of a traumatic experience. An accident. I know that. I _knew_ that even as it was happening, but I…" Greg looked away. "Look, Grissom. You have her. You'll always have her. And I never will. I _never_ will. So when the opportunity presented itself, it was like… She really did love me, if only for one night, if only because she desperately needed someone to hold her and comfort her, and just for that night it was _me_. I mean, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth, you know?"

"But why was it _you_ Greg?" Grissom asked quietly. "Why did she need _you_ to be the one to hold her and comfort her?"

Greg's mouth opened and closed like a gold fish's. "I… I just thought that maybe… I don't know."

Slowly Grissom turned around. "You think she's just in love with the thought of you, Greg, but I know better. I know better." He sighed and looked away from Greg again, out the window at something far away from there. "But it doesn't matter anymore. She doesn't belong to anyone anymore."

Greg was staring at him dumbstruck. "What do you mean?"

Grissom sighed and closed his eyes. "While you were in surgery a few days ago, Sasha Volkov got a hold of her. I don't want to go into detail here, but needless to say he scarred her pretty bad. She's in the psych ward right now. She hasn't spoken or moved since we found her."

Greg was pale as his mouth formed a small 'o.' Slowly, his face dissolved into a resolute expression as he sat up in his bed. "I want to talk to her," he insisted.

"That's out of the question," Grissom said firmly, approaching the bed and trying to push Greg back down. Greg batted his hands away, though he winced in doing so. "Your stitches are still tender, and you lost a lot of blood, Greg—"

"Which I've since gained back in the days I've been out," Greg interrupted. "Which were— how many again?"

"Five days," Grissom replied. "You drifted in and out of consciousness but this is the first time you've been coherent."

"Yeah, five days," Greg said with a nod, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "I'll be fine. I'm tired, and I ache all over, but I'm going to see her and you can't stop me."

Grissom opened his mouth to protest then slumped his shoulders in defeat and shrugged. "Fine," he said. "But I can't guarantee you'll like what you see."

Greg's face was solemn as he replied. The prominent scar on his cheek made him look even graver then he'd intended. "I don't expect to," he replied. "Where is she?" He tried to stand up and wobbled before falling back on the bed. He rolled his eyes and cursed.

"I'll get you a wheel chair," Grissom offered, and disappeared a moment before returning with one.

Greg smiled gratefully at him. "Fantastic," he muttered. "I'm a cripple."

"There are worse things you could be," Grissom reminded him.

Greg nodded. "I could be dead."

"Or catatonic."

Greg sighed sadly at this comment as he slipped into the wheel chair. He looked up at Grissom expectantly. "Lead the way."

As they rolled down the hall, Greg suddenly and almost painfully noted the absence of his parents. "Grissom…" he began slowly. "Where are my folks?"

Grissom didn't answer right away. "They didn't answer their phone when I called," he said. "I left a message on their machine to call me, but they never returned it."

Greg quickly ran through all the reasons why his parents wouldn't have answered the call. They were on vacation. They were too busy to check their messages. They were too busy leaving messages on _Greg's_ answering machine since they hadn't heard from him in five days. Greg's mother always called him at least once a week. He only humored her to an extent, since when he refused to answer, she always left annoyingly long and frantic messages on his machine. Or what if it wasn't that? What if something had happened to them and Greg didn't know about it?

As if he wasn't worried enough, Grissom pushed him into an elevator which led up to the psych ward of Desert Palms and a cold cloak of dread draped itself over his thoughts. By the time they reached Sara's floor, Greg's heart was gripped with a grim sense of foreboding. The hall was dim and pretty much empty, the florescent lights flickering to emphasize the unstable personalities of its occupants. A nurse walked by looking hurried with a syringe in her hand. As Grissom wheeled Greg down the hall, he felt like he'd stepped into some odd B-rated horror movie.

As if after an eternity, Grissom stopped outside a room. There was a name on the chart on the door. SIDLE, S. Seeing her name written in such a cold and formal way depressed Greg. It was like reading her name on a tombstone, or on a list of victims of some grand disaster. It seemed hopeless and impersonal. He wondered dimly if that was how Sara felt herself.

Grissom pushed the door open and wheeled Greg in. He saw Sara instantly. She was laying in the bed with her back to them, one hand resting on top of the pillow as she stared blindly out the window.

"Hey, angel…" Greg said quietly as he rolled himself over to her. "Can you hear me?" She made no move to show that she even knew he was there. Greg looked over at Grissom. "She's been like this for five _days_?" Grissom nodded. "Didn't they give her anything? Lorazepam or something?"

Grissom continued to nod. "Doctors guessed it snapped her out of the initial state," Grissom replied. "It dissolved her rigidity and she allowed them to move her into the car. But she didn't come out of her stupor. They say her mind's not ready to cope with what happened to her yet."

Greg didn't tear his eyes away from Sara's still form. "And exactly what… _did_ happen to her, Grissom?" he asked flatly. Grissom didn't reply, but Greg hadn't really expected him to. He wheeled himself closer to her until he was right by her bed. "Sara?" he whispered. "Aw, Sara… What did he do to you?" He stroked her hair softly, half expecting her to pull away from his touch. But she didn't move. He moved around the bed, to the other side of it, getting in the way of her view of the window. Her eyes were vacant. She didn't seem to mind the change of scenery. There was a strand of hair in her eyes. Greg reached over and placed it behind his ears.

He had a flashback to days earlier when he had done something similar, right before kissing her. The memory brought a taste to cinnamon to his mouth.

"So," Greg said. "You wouldn't have any gum on you, would you?" She said nothing. "I thought not." He leaned in close so he could whisper in her ear. "I love you, Sara Sidle. What happened to you was twisted and wrong, but it's over, and I'm here now. I just want to see you smile again. Can you do that for me, angel?"

He felt no response beneath him, no sign that she was even alive anymore. Greg leaned back, looking at Sara with a gaze as dead as hers. He took her hand and squeezed it tightly. He felt the familiar stinging behind his lids but tried to blink it back. To see her broken, to see her laying there with nothing left, destroyed him. "Please…" he said, his voice shaking as his vision grew blurry. "Please, Sara, just…" He blinked and his eyes overflowed, water trickling down his cheeks. He wanted to lay down next to her and wrap her tightly in his arms. "I promised you I wouldn't let anyone hurt you. I wish there was something that I could have done to…" She was staring straight at him, but he might as well have been talking to a corpse. He sobbed. "Oh God…"

"Greg?"

He jumped at the intruding voice. He had forgotten that he wasn't alone with her. Greg looked over to the door where he saw Grissom who was as stoic as ever. It was all Greg could take as he dissolved into a fit of tears, his chest heaving and his stomach aching as his wounds reopened with his sudden gasps. Grissom walked swiftly into the room and kneeled in front of Greg's wheel chair to look him in the eye. He forced his chin up but Greg looked away from him again.

"Greg, listen to me," Grissom said sternly. "You couldn't have done _anything _to stop this. None of us could have. We're all having those thoughts. She was taken after shift, right from her car. I was working a double, but I walked right past her car at 9:30 and didn't even realize that it shouldn't have been there. Nick and Catherine drove out of there as soon as their shift ended without even checking on her. Only Warrick thought to offer to escort her home, and he… he was in the middle of talking to her when Volkov came up behind him and pistol whipped him in the head. If you ask me, you're the _least_ to blame in all this, considering you were unconscious."

"But I promised her—" Greg whimpered.

"Which only goes to show you shouldn't make promises you can't keep," Grissom interrupted. "You can't protect her from everything, Greg. Believe me, I've tried."

Greg wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "You don't have to do this," he told Grissom. "Being all straight-faced and giving me advice like you do. I don't want you to pretend to like me right now, Grissom. I know I've caused you a lot of grief in a lot of different ways."

Greg wasn't looking at Grissom so he didn't catch the look that fleetingly crossed his features. When he spoke, it was as emotionless as ever. "Greg… You almost died. Came a little too close to it then we would have liked. Did you know Catherine hasn't been to work _all week_? Warrick can't focus on anything, and Nick has been in some sort of zombie-like trance. I'm not being 'straight-faced,' as you call it, just for you, Greg. I'm doing it for me. Because if I show one ounce of all the things I really feel, all the thoughts that are cluttering my brain, then I won't be able to stop. It'll all pour out, and I don't have time to worry about that kind of thing. My time is much better spent worrying about you."

By now, Greg had calmed down, but he still wasn't looking at Grissom. He spoke in a whisper. "I understand if you hate me."

"Greg…" Grissom said slowly. "Greg, look at me. Please." Finally Greg looked up, his brown eyes tired and deep. "I could never hate you, Greg. You don't deserve that."

Greg couldn't help cracking a small smile. "That really means a lot, Grissom. Really."

Grissom stood up and looked down at him. And though he returned the smile, Greg detected the severe sincerity in his next words. "That doesn't mean I've forgiven you yet."

Greg coughed and changed the subject. "What happened to her, Grissom? What did he do to Sara and where is he now? Just give me two minutes alone in a room with him, I can't guarantee he'll come out of it alive—"

"He's dead, Greg," Grissom said.

Greg looked surprised. "And you didn't tell me this before because…"

"You didn't mention it," Grissom replied with a shrug.

Greg looked back at Sara. "You keep avoiding what I do mention though," he noted. "You won't tell me what happened to her."

Grissom sighed. He opened his mouth to explain, but couldn't bring himself to do it. But he couldn't by any means show Greg the tape. It would destroy him. "You should get some rest, Greg. You need to let your wounds heal."

Greg was getting annoyed. "Grissom—"

All of a sudden Grissom's cell phone began to ring. He looked at the caller ID, which he didn't recognize before answering. "Grissom." He immediately held the phone at arms length away from him as a shrill voice could be heard.

Greg started laughing as he held his hand out expectantly to Grissom. "I'd know that shouting anywhere. Hand me the phone." Grissom was only too happy to oblige as Greg put the phone to his ear. "Mom? _Mom_! M—No, Mom, you're not talking to Grissom anymore." He laughed. "Yes, mom—_Yes_, it's me, stop talking so fast, I'm fi—" His face grew serious. "Mom, I thought I told you to never call me that again. Remember what happened in seventh grade?... Yes, I promise I am alright. There is no need to come down, Grissom was just calling to… uh… ask you when my birthday was… Yeah, see? There was no emergency. Out of curiosity, where have you been the past five days? I, er, tried to call you on…" He put his bandaged hand over the phone and looked at Grissom. "What day is it?" he whispered.

"Wednesday," Grissom replied.

Greg returned to the phone. "Monday, but you didn't answer. What's up with that?... Uh huh… OK… Scuba diving?... I've never heard of Sharm El Sheik. It sounds Middle Eastern, but I thought you said the Middle East was filled with… uh… Un-Christian people." He covered the phone again and looked apologetically at Grissom. "She's, um, not exactly politically correct…" He turned back to the phone. "What?... Mom, Egypt is so in the Middle East, it's— Oh you liked them, eh?... No, Mom, they speak _Arabic_. Not Egyptian… I know they're not terrorists, I'm sure they're a very pleasant and peaceful people, Mom, but they _are_ Arabs!... Mom, I am _not_ being racist, it's their _ethnicity_!... Oh, so I say they're Arabs and that means I'm calling them terrorists— Mom, I…" Greg rolled his eyes. "OK, fine, they're African, but they're also—" Greg sighed. "Fine, Mom, they're Africans and they speak Egyptian and they read hieroglyphics and they're a very nice people… Listen, Mom, as much as I'd love to chat, Grissom has me on this case and I really gotta run it… Yeah, it's about a girl who was attacked… She survived, but she's in the hospital and she's not speaking… I know, it is terrible. I gotta go, OK?... Yes, I love you too." He rolled his eyes again. "_Yes_, more than the sun and the moon and—Mom, I'm not going to say that, my boss is here... OK, I'll say it later. Love you too. Bye." He handed the phone back to Grissom. "I have to deal with rants like that on a weakly basis. She hasn't hit sixty yet, but I swear she's already senile. I think I drove her to it. She's been psycho over me since the day I was born."

"You didn't tell her about what happened," Grissom noted as he took back the phone.

Greg gave him an awkward shrug. "She didn't need to know," he replied. "She'd just wig out on me and I don't need that right now. I just got a few cuts and bruises is all."

"You were stabbed," Grissom said. "Not to mention the shallow cuts she made everywhere else in the hopes that you'd bleed out. Which you almost did, in case you forget."

"Well apparently they got to me in time," Greg replied. "Found enough blood to replace it and now I'm alive, _in case you forget_."

Grissom grew quiet a moment before he nodded. "Oh no, Greg. I don't forget."

"And they told me O neg was a difficult type to deal with for recipients," Greg was muttering with the hint of a smile. "Apparently they had some stashed away somewhere."

Grissom bit his lip. "I guess they did." Greg yawned. "I'll take you back to your room."

Greg nodded, his lids getting heavy over his eyes. "Mom always wears me out. Did you know that Egyptians read and write in hieroglyphics? Apparently, all the street signs are written in them. My mom thinks Arabic writing resembles that of Pharaonic Egypt." Greg rolled his eyes. "I love her, but she's so oblivious to the world."

Grissom was glad that Greg talked about his mother on their way back to his room. For one, it was rather amusing, and for another it saved him from having to talk about Sara. By the time they returned to Greg's room, he crawled into the bed and was out like a light.

Grissom decided to take another look at that tape.


	16. Exposé

_**Author's Note:**_ Interestingly enough, I've met people like Greg's mother in the last chapter. It never ceases to crack me up. Thanks for your insightful reviews, as always. Here's the next chapter, as promised. We're coming towards the end sort of... My guess is... three more chapters after this. Phoenix is slowly trudging along... I'm trying to tie it up faster but it's not cooperating. I swear, these things take on a mind of their own. Anyways, this is up early too on account of I decided to skip class today and sleep instead.

* * *

Catherine stood in the doorway as she watched her daughter sleep. She hadn't slept in two days and her eyes were bloodshot. She felt cold as a draft blew by her and she rubbed her arms for warmth. 

She still couldn't believe that this had happened in her neighborhood. With Lindsey just across the street, and sometimes even _next door_ at that dreadful woman's house. For a moment, she considered moving. Lindsey would complain, and there was the whole process of finding another house, which would just be in a different, unfamiliar neighborhood. But the threat was gone now, and there would always be risks in every neighborhood. And there would always be women like Susan Reed trying to tell Catherine how to raise her daughter. So in the end, she really couldn't do anything at all.

"Mom?"

Catherine's thoughts returned to her daughter's room and she smiled at a wakeful Lindsey, who had sat up in her bed and was returning her mother's gaze. "Hey, sweetie."

"What's wrong?" Lindsey asked. "Are you OK?"

Catherine nodded as she walked over to her daughter and kneeled down by her bed. "I think I will be," she replied sincerely. "Something very bad happened a few days ago."

"Is that why you've been so quiet lately?" Lindsey inquired.

Catherine nodded. "Two very dear friends of mine were both badly injured… Lindsey, when you babysit for the Reeds… Do you ever hear… noises? Screams? Coming from next door, maybe?"

Lindsey hesitated, then nodded slowly. "One time I thought of calling the police, but I called Mrs. Reed first. She told me to just ignore it, but sometimes it would get so loud it would wake Laura and it takes forever to get that baby back to sleep again."

"You never called the police?" Catherine whispered.

Lindsey shrugged. "Well, I did once. I was so frustrated with Laura and how she kept waking up, I lodged a complaint. They went over and knocked on the door and asked them to be quiet and then left."

"But you kept hearing screams after that?" Catherine probed.

Lindsey shook her head. "On that night, after the cops left, there was one last scream and then I think they remembered they were being loud and they shut up for the rest of the night."

Catherine shivered. "Lindsey, I don't want you babysitting for the Reeds anymore, do you understand?"

"Aw, Mom, but they pay well—"

"Every time they offer, you make up an excuse," Catherine insisted. "And I'll pay you exactly what they would have paid for your full services."

"Because _that_ teaches a strong work ethic," Lindsey said sarcastically.

Catherine smiled. "I'll figure out something you can do to earn it," she said. "I just want to make sure you're safe."

"Mom, what happened to your friends?"

Catherine didn't want to talk about that. "It's late, sweetie, and you have school tomorrow. Why don't you get some rest?"

Lindsey yawned and nodded as she rolled over in her bed. "Goodnight, Mom."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Catherine whispered, rising to her feet. "I love you." But Lindsey was already fast asleep. Catherine approached the door and looked over her shoulder at her sleeping daughter and smiled fondly at her.

There were so many monsters in this world. She could try her hardest to protect her daughter, but what if one of them ever got their hands on Lindsey? They had hurt so many people, and now they had hurt Greg and Sara, who were both hospitalized and not speaking. She missed them both dearly and silently prayed for their recovery. Neither of them deserved this, especially after what had happened to them half a year ago.

She wondered how Grissom was handling everything. She had known him long enough to look past his cool façade and see the turmoil whirling in his blue eyes. He was in a kind of hell himself. It wasn't the self-imposed mental lockdown Sara had fallen into, and it wasn't the restless nightmares Greg battled nightly. It was a waking, living, breathing demon that walked around inside of him, that he carried with him every day, that slashed at his heart every time he looked at either Greg or Sara, incapacitated in their beds. He was suffering too, and he didn't deserve it any more than Greg or Sara.

Catherine used to believe in a merciful God before she became a criminalist and saw too many bad things happen to good people. Then, she hadn't known what to believe in. But now that God had spared the lives of her friends, she begged him to protect them better than she ever could, and to heal them in ways the doctors couldn't.

With whispered words she willed her hopes to reach the ears of someone who could answer them. And with a sigh, she entered her bedroom and tried to fall asleep. But sleep was far from her.

* * *

Nick was sequestered in a dark room by the AV lab. He stared at the TV screen and kept rewinding and watching again. There was a knock on the door and Nick called over his shoulder. 

"Occupied!"

The door opened anyway and light spilled into the room. It hurt Nick's eyes and he put a hand to his forehead and cast shade over them. He could detect Grissom's silhouette in the doorway as his supervisor stepped inside and closed the door, illuminated now only by the dim light of the TV screen.

"Archie said you were in here," Grissom said. "What are you doing?"

Nick sighed as he leaned back in the chair and stared at the TV. "Grissom, I've been watching this tape so many times and I still can't get it."

Grissom pulled up a chair and sat next to Nick, his eyes also on the TV screen. "What I don't get is how you can stand to watch it more than once."

Nick closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can't," he replied. "I mean, at least not what he did to her. My God, Grissom, I could barely watch it once without throwing up. Her screams… I still hear them. No, it's what _she_ did to _him _that I don't get. There—do you see it? When she tells him not to stop the tape." He paused the video.

But Grissom was looking at Nick now in bafflement. "Is this what you've been doing all week? Watching this video?"

Nick ignored the question. "Look at her eyes, Grissom," he said, pointing at them with his finger. "She knew what she was going to do right then. I know that look, Grissom. She was hell-bent on killing him and nothing was going to stop her from doing it. That's why she told him to leave it on. She knew we'd need to know what happened and she didn't want to tell us. She knew we'd be looking at this tape. And I think that's one of the thoughts that broke her." Nick turned to Grissom. "She's not the same Sara Sidle we knew anymore. Not after that." He unpaused the video and the two men watched with elevated emotions as Volkov untied Sara and she kicked the knife from his hands, throwing him to the ground and slashing at him.

"She once said she could never take a life…" Nick said after a moment. "I guess she didn't think she'd ever be in a position where she'd just lose it like that…"

"You've been sitting here, watching Volkov's murder over and over again," Grissom whispered.

"Not just that," Nick said as the tape rolled on and Sara stood up, looking slightly surprised at her kill. "I've been running the time line between now and when she comes back to turn off the camera. Lana said that every door knob had blood on it, but the bathroom was what she was looking for. She tried to turn on the water but there's no plumbing at the house. Apparently, the Volkov's bought it, but didn't pay any bills except electric, which were really low. Lana figures the only lights they used were in the basement. After _that_ the footprints lead out through the dining room… There's a bloody hand print on the sliding glass door. The footprints continue to the edge of the pool, where she jumped in. There was chlorine in her hair which confirms it."

"So if you know all that…" Grissom said. "Why are you wondering?"

Nick was shaking his head. "Because Grissom… either she spent over two hours in that pool, or she did something else before going down, getting dressed and turning off the camera."

Grissom was quiet as they stared at an empty scene, the blood from Sasha Volkov's carcass slowly seeping out into the growing blood pool. "She has issues with feeling clean. I'll bet she spent those two hours in the pool."

Nick buried his face in his hands. "This is a disaster…"

"I got served with the papers today," Grissom said flatly. "DA is pressing charges."

"_What_?!" Nick snapped to attention. "She's catatonic in the _hospital_ and they're pressing _charges_? Did he _see_ this tape?"

"He's willing to plead out," Grissom continued. "Insanity."

"Not self defense?" Nick inquired.

Grissom shook his head. "Malicious intent," he said. "Personal. She attacked him again and again, making sure he felt pain. You said it yourself, Nick. You saw it in her eyes."

"Jesus…" Nick muttered.

"All they're asking for is that she gets treatment. No jail time, nothing like that. It will go on her record though. I don't even know if she has a job here anymore."

Nick relaxed, but only slightly. "A political loophole," he grumbled. "Charge her with murder, then exonerate her with an insanity plea. Keep it looking like we don't give law enforcement special treatment, yet still cutting them a break."

"According to Ecklie," Grissom said, "they would have done the same if she wasn't a CSI and just a normal girl. The tape really helped though. No one wants to see this case reach the inside of a courtroom with a jury. The public shouldn't have to see this kind of evidence. And if they did, they would have obviously sided with Sara anyway after what happened to her."

Nick let out a long sigh as he hit the fast-forward button. "She's a victim, Grissom… She shouldn't have been charged with anything at all."

"Why do you think I hate politics?" Grissom asked.

There was a knock at the door and it opened a crack. Grissom and Nick both turned to see Warrick in the door.

"Grissom?" he said. "You gotta see this."

Frowning, both Nick and Grissom left the room and saw a fight in the reception between Lana Hancock and the CSI that Nick remembered carried out Volkov's body.

"You sick attention-seeking son of a _bitch_!" Lana was yelling. "Do you have any _idea_ what you've _done_?!"

"What's going on here?" Grissom asked.

Lana looked up at him and he saw a lens in her glasses was cracked. She jabbed a thumb at her colleague, who had a black eye. "This asshole sold a copy of our tape to the eleven o'clock news!"

Grissom paled. "What?!"

Before Grissom could do anything, the offending CSI was on the ground as Nick landed punch after punch on him.

"NICK!" Grissom shouted, but Warrick was already pulling Nick back.

Lana on the other hand was egging him on. "Kick his double-crossing ass!"

"Nick Stokes!" Fantastic, Ecklie had arrived. Grissom buried his face in his hands. Warrick succeeded in pulling Nick to his feet. The CSI beneath him scrambled over to the wall, looking much worse for wear.

Ecklie was furious. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Nick was breathing heavily, but it was Lana who answered him. "Dickwad here sold a copy of Sara Sidle's rape tape to Paula fucking Francis!"

Grissom cringed at the vulgar reference to the tape. Lana Hancock didn't know Sara, so to her it was just another case. But by looking at Warrick and Nick, they'd also been affected by the way she referred to the tape. Even Ecklie went white, although Grissom knocked it up to the fact that confidential evidence had leaked to the news rather than the way it was being spoken about.

"Has it aired yet?" Ecklie demanded.

"I don't even know if they're _going_ to air it," the beat-up CSI responded. "I don't even know if they _can_, at least not with heavy editing. They just wanted the story."

"When is the story scheduled to run?" Ecklie asked.

"Tonight," the CSI replied. "Eleven."

"Shit, Thompson…" Ecklie rolled his eyes and looked at his watch. "That's in an _hour_." He spun on his heal and saw Grissom. "Call Channel Seven now, get them to pull the story ASAP."

Grissom had already taken out his phone and was listening to it ring. "Hello. You have reached Channel Seven News. If you would like to report a story, please press one. If you would like to—"

Grissom hung up. "No good," he said. "Got a machine. Can't we talk to a living person for once?"

Warrick pulled out his keys. "We can get to the station in half an hour if traffic isn't so bad."

"As Greg's mother might say," Grissom said. "_Im Sha'allah_."

"What's that mean?" Warrick asked as they headed out the door.

A smile tugged at Grissom's lips. "It's Arabic," he replied. "For 'If God wills it'.'"

Warrick chuckled. "_Im Sha'allah_ then," he said as they climbed into the car.

* * *

When Greg woke up again his room was dark. Which meant it was night, and Grissom and the others had probably already started their shifts. Greg sighed as he stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. He was bored and there was no one to talk to. He thought about getting up and going to talk to Sara, but the wheel chair was across the room. He called the nurse. After a few minutes, she arrived. 

"Yes, sir?"

"Can I take a little trip to the psych ward?" he asked. "I wanna visit Sara Sidle."

The nurse looked unsure as she wrung her hands. "Well, sir, I'm new here, I don't know if—"

"Please," he interrupted. "She's not dangerous, she's catatonic, and I was there earlier, so I don't think it's a problem. Please?"

The nurse sighed. "Sir, I think you're supposed to be resting, I should check with the attending—"

"I love her," Greg said quickly, emphasizing each word. "_Please_, ma'am. She needs me. Or… or maybe I need her."

It was obvious the nurse was a romantic as she suddenly made a long 'aw' sound and grinned. "Oh, I guess one little visit couldn't hurt," she said, smirking.

Greg grinned appreciatively and thanked her as she helped him into his wheel chair. "You work the nightshift then, eh? What's your name?"

"Halla," she replied.

"That's a pretty name," Greg commented. "Where's it from?"

"It's Arabic," she replied. "My family is Egyptian."

"My mom would _love_ you," Greg said. "She just went to Egypt on vacation. She, uh, thinks you're African, and that you can read hieroglyphics, but she says she _loves_ the people there."

Halla wheeled Greg into the elevator. "Which room did you say your girlfriend was in again?"

"She's not my—" Greg stopped himself, realizing he had implied that she was when he'd coerced the nurse to take him to Sara. "Room 218 I think. Sara Sidle. You know, I work the nightshift too. It's probably why I'm so awake."

"Where do you work?" Halla asked as the elevator opened up on Sara's floor.

"Oh, I'm a CSI," Greg said proudly. "So's she. And she's_ fantastic_, I mean, you should see her work. She's dedicated, she's thorough, and she always looks out for the screw-ups like me."

"You sound like you really love her," Halla said. "Ah, here. Sidle, S."

As she opened the door, Greg thought about what Halla had said. "Yeah…" he said, mostly to himself. "I really do."

Halla turned on the light and Greg took the wheels and moved over towards Sara's bed. She was in the same position she had been earlier, staring out the window.

"Hey, babe," Greg whispered, although he knew he could have shouted it and she wouldn't have reacted. "How are you doing? Much of the same, I see."

"Do you want me to wait outside?" Halla offered.

Greg smiled at her over his shoulder. "Nah… we're not gonna do anything deserving of privacy." He turned to Sara. "Sara, meet Halla, the nice nurse lady who brought me up here. Halla, meet Sara, the woman I've been in love with for seven years."

Halla bowed her head. "A real honor, ma'am," she said.

Greg stroked Sara's greasy hair. "God…" he said. "How is it you haven't had a shower in a week and your hair _still_ smells like strawberries? So, angel, what do you want to do?" He looked up and saw there was a TV in the room. "Hey, let's switch on the TV. Something funny… It's…" he looked around and found a clock. " Eleven o'clock—hey! Jon Stewart's on. He's always good for a laugh, alright then…" Greg looked around for the remote but Halla handed it to him. "Thank you, Halla." He switched on the TV.

He regretted it immediately. If he had maybe waited five minutes, or turned it on only one minute earlier, he would have avoided it. But there was no avoiding seeing Sara's head shot on the eleven o'clock news. He froze.

"…a criminalist for the Las Vegas Crime Lab. As you may recall, we reported that she was hospitalized five days ago and has apparently fallen into a catatonic stupor. The cause for this sudden mental break down? This man." The image changed to one of the wedding photos Greg remembered seeing on the Volkov mantle. "Aleksandr Volkov abducted Miss Sidle right from the Crime Lab parking lot and within hours was viciously abused and raped. You may recognize Volkov's name, as his wife Vera, also pictured, tortured another criminalist earlier this week and was apprehended. We recently came in possession of a tape that no other station has, which depicts the rape. Volkov filmed it himself, and has, until now, been classified evidence in the recently closed investigation. The rape is clearly and disgustingly illustrated, but what's also visible on the tape is a twisted turn of events. After cutting the CSI loose, the camera stays on and we are able to witness the brutal and vengeful murder of Aleksandr Volkov by his rape victim who mutilated and stabbed Volkov forty-two times without even putting on her clothes. Now this footage is much too graphic for public television, but—" Paula Francis cut herself off and put a hand to her ear. She looked flustered as she raised her eyebrows at the cameraman. "This is _live_…" she hissed, still smiling. She seemed to have gotten a response as she laughed it off awkwardly. "OK, folks, so apparently I am legally obligated to stop reporting this story on penalty of arrest, so we're moving on to our next story. Jojo, the newborn panda at the zoo today—"

Greg switched off the TV and didn't move for a long time. "Halla," he said quietly. "Can you access my personal effects?" She didn't reply for a long time. "Halla?"

"Sorry," she said suddenly, snapping out of her trance. "It's just— the TV. Your girlfriend, she—"

"Would you be so kind as to bring me my cell phone?" Greg asked her calmly. "I have a phone call to make."


	17. Miracles

**_Author's Note:_** Short chapter today. The next one's longer though. Two more chapters to go after this (yay!) and then Phoenix will begin posting. I love you're reviews, they're so insightful. :o)

* * *

"Shit!" Warrick swore blatantly, kicking a nearby tripod. 

"Be careful with that!" snapped a cameraman.

"Don't you fucking tell me to be _careful_!" Warrick yelled back. He turned to Grissom and rolled his eyes. "Grissom, the cat's out of the bag now. We didn't stop her in time."

Grissom was breathing in and out slowly. There was nothing more he wanted to do then just break down right there. But he had more important things to worry about. "If we forbid them from reporting about the tape, they'll gripe about free speech laws. Technically, the case is closed, all evidence can be released…"

"And although they can't show it on TV," Warrick said grimly, "soon enough it'll be on the Net. Jesus… Who bought that tape? We need it back _now_."

Grissom nodded his agreement when his phone began to ring. He reached down to answer it. "Grissom."

"What the hell was that?" Greg's voice demanded on the other end of the line.

Grissom closed his eyes and held his breath a moment before exhaling. "Greg…"

"Grissom, you didn't tell me there was a _tape_! You didn't tell me he _filmed_ her… You didn't even say she was _raped_, although that much I might have guessed by her condition, but—" He paused, trying to calm himself down. "I want to see it."

Grissom would stand firm this time. "No, Greg. Absolutely _not_."

"Why not? Apparently some stranger news guy has seen it. Hell, Paula Francis herself has probably seen it. I want that tape, Grissom. I want to know what happened to Sara."

"You _know_ what happened," Grissom said. "You don't need to _see_ it, Greg. Trust me on this."

"Grissom, please," Greg begged. "I was stabbed this week. Show me the tape."

"_No_, Greg." Grissom refused to cave. "I'll swing by to visit you after shift. Good night."

"Grissom, I—" But Grissom hung up before he could get out what he wanted to say.

He looked at Warrick, who had been watching him. "Figure out who Thompson sold the tape to and buy it back, for twice as much if called for. If Ecklie doesn't authorize the funds to buy it, you can take it out of my personal account. But for once, I think he'll cooperate. He doesn't want that thing accessible to the public any more than you or I do."

"What are you gonna do?" Warrick asked.

"I have to get back to the lab," Grissom replied, "and protect the original tape from a completely new threat."

* * *

Unfortunately for Grissom, Greg's fingers walked faster than Grissom's car could drive. 

"Stokes."

"Nick—" Greg said, sounding urgent. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything, Greggo," Nick replied. "_Damn_, it's good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Greg said quickly. "Just—bring me the tape. The—the one of Sara and Volkov."

Nick hesitated. "I don't have access to that."

"Don't lie to me, Nick," Greg said. "I don't want any bullshit, I just want that tape."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Greggo…"

"_Please_, Nick," Greg begged. "Grissom and I talked about it." He neglected to say Grissom refused to let him see it. "Bring it down, would you? I'm in Sara's room."

"Greg, no good can come from seeing this tape," Nick said. "It'll just upset you, and I don't think Sara would want—"

"Show me the fucking _tape_, Nick!" Greg snapped.

Nick sighed. "There's an assault victim at the hospital I need to talk to anyway," he said. "I'll… I'll bring it down. But Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"… Never mind," Nick sighed again and hung up.

Greg's eyes rested on Sara. "My God, Sara… I'm sorry, I didn't know that was on. Otherwise, I would have never…" Greg sighed. He knew she wasn't listening.

"If it makes you feel any better," Halla said, "she probably wasn't paying attention to the TV."

Greg nodded. "I don't get catatonia," he admitted. "Is she just not paying attention, or can she actually not hear us?"

"Consider it like a waking coma," Halla explained. "She'll come out of it when she's good and ready. As for whether or not she can hear us, well…" Halla's pager went off. "Hey, I gotta take care of some other patients. You hang in there, alright?" She smiled at Greg. "Take good care of yourself. And your girlfriend."

"Thank you, Halla," Greg said. "Don't worry about me, Nick will be here eventually."

Halla nodded and left, leaving Greg and Sara on their own. Greg slipped his hand into Sara's grasp and squeezed it tight.

It was probably his imagination, but he could have sworn that she squeezed back.

* * *

Nick knocked on the door then stopped when he saw Greg was asleep, slumped over Sara. He smiled at the sight as he entered quietly and approached his friends. He put a kind hand on Greg's shoulder and Greg jumped awake, grabbing Nick's wrist with his good hand.

"Whoa!" Nick exclaimed.

Greg stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights before he relaxed and let Nick go with a sigh. "I— I'm sorry, Nick, I thought… Never mind. Did you bring the tape?"

Nick wasn't smiling as he pulled the tape out of his bag. "Can we watch this somewhere else? I, uh… not with Sara in here."

"No," Greg agreed. "No, not with Sara, you're right. Let's go."

Nick wheeled Greg across the hall into an empty exam room. He approached the TV and was about to insert the tape when he looked over his shoulder at Greg. "Before we watch this," he said, "I just want to make sure you'll be OK. You've been through a lot, man. I'm gonna fast-forward through the unnecessary parts… you know what happened to her, and she wouldn't want you to see her like this."

Greg nodded as he sat in his wheel chair and folded his arms. "Just put it on," he said.

Nick remembered how angry he had been when Vega had refused to show _him_ the tape, but after watching it he understood why. He didn't want to watch Greg go through the same series of emotions that he had gone through. Anger, revulsion, hatred, nausea…

He watched his friend's face carefully as Greg's eyes remained glued to the screen. Greg's breathing became low and heavy as he exhaled through his nostrils. Nick walked over to his friend and put his hand over his, which was clutching the arm of the wheel chair so hard his knuckles were turning white. His busted hand seemed to flex slightly too as it rested on the opposite arm.

Nick let Greg watch the initial conversation between Sara and Volkov, but when the tape became more violent, Nick fast-forwarded. Even in double time, it was almost too much to bear.

"Did she scream?" Greg asked, his voice cracking.

Nick pursed his lips and tried not to cry. "Yes," he answered honestly. "I still hear it."

Greg swallowed. "Me too," he whispered.

Nick squeezed his hand as he watched Greg. He looked up at the TV and immediately regretted it, but didn't turn away. Greg couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. Eventually, Volkov dismounted and got off the bed, putting on his pants. Nick pressed play. His eyes flew back to Greg. He had seen this part enough times by now.

"_Don't turn it off_."

"_Ready for another, dusha_?"

Greg only closed his eyes at one point in the entire tape, and that's when Sara stabbed Volkov through the heart. "Turn it off…" Greg whispered, sounding sick. Nick fumbled with the remote. "Turn it _off_!" Nick looked at Greg in concern before hitting the power button. Greg's face was in his hands as he sniffed. "You know why she's catatonic, don't you? It wasn't the rape, it was the murder. It was the murder she couldn't deal with."

Nick said nothing but simply squeezed Greg's shoulder. "Are you gonna be OK?"

"No…" Greg whispered. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Nick had expected this and seized a nearby bedpan, handing it quickly to Greg just in time. When he was finished retching, Greg remained hunched over. Nick saw his back rise and fall in morose laughter.

"What's up?" Nick asked him.

Greg simply shook his head. "I just think it's so ironic, man… The only way she could deal with the rape is if she killed him, but the only way she could ever kill someone is if she'd completely lost it… Vera did a lot to me, man. And it was one crazy drug trip, too, and it wasn't fun like you'd think, believe me. But this they harvested out of the darkest corners of my nightmares. Places even the drugs didn't dare to go… They brought it to life Nick. And it destroyed her. She's broken, just like in my dreams, only this time when I wake up, she's still like that. She's damaged and I can't fix her… I can't fix her…"

Soon enough, his laughter turned to sobs and Nick slid a kind arm around his shoulders. He tried to say something to comfort him, but he had run out of words. He had warned Greg about the tape, but he had been so insistent… He probably had hoped it hadn't been as bad as he imagined, but the tape only confirmed that it had been worse.

Nick's phone began to ring, startling both him and Greg. He answered it. "Stokes."

"Nick, where's the tape?" Grissom's voice demanded.

"It's with me, don't worry," Nick assured him. "I'm not selling it to anyone either."

"Brass said you went to Desert Palms," Grissom said. "To see a victim?"

"That's right," Nick replied.

"If you take a detour to see Greg, don't even think about showing him the tape." Nick hesitated a little too long. "Jesus, Nick, please don't tell me he wheedled you into it!"

"Uh, no," Nick said quickly. "He tried, but he didn't see it."

"Good," Grissom said. "I don't want anyone else watching that tape from here on out, and that includes Greg, do you understand?"

"Yeah, Grissom, read you loud and clear," Nick replied. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll see you when I get back at the lab." Nick hung up and looked down at Greg, who was still hunched over. He had stopped crying. "You should have told me Grissom didn't want you to see the tape."

"I needed to see it, Nick," Greg whispered. "You don't understand."

"What did you think, Greg?" Nick said suddenly. "I mean, by watching it, what did you expect? Did you expect to find closure? Did you think it wouldn't be as _bad_ as you _thought_?"

"I don't know what I expected, Nick," Greg answered quietly. "Maybe… Maybe I thought, if I knew what she went through, I could understand, I could help her… But I don't regret seeing it. Jesus, Nick, the things he did to her…"

The door opened and Greg and Nick looked up to see a scared girl dressed in a hospital gown watching them with a blank expression. Neither of them moved as she walked into the room, her gaze focused firmly on Greg. She put her hands on top of his which were still gripping the arms of his wheel chair. She stroked the bandages on his left hand tenderly. He stared up at her adoringly, as if she were his only means of salvation. He watched her as though she were illuminated by some heavenly light. But she wasn't. Her hair was dark and her skin was pale, and she was far from a vision of divine beauty. She looked sickly and gaunt, and might probably have been seen as pitiful to an ignorant observer. But she was the most beautiful vision Greg Sanders had ever seen.

She kneeled down in front of his chair, her eyes never leaving his as the tears streaked down his cheeks. She reached up and wiped them away. This simple act was the last thing Greg could stand before he dissolved into a fit of tears and whimpers. Her arms slowly enfolded him and she let him weep. She hushed him with quiet tones, stroking his hair like a mother might do with her son who'd just woken up from a nightmare.

Nick stood frozen in awe and an overwhelming sense of appreciation for this delicate scene. He swallowed as he shook his head in disbelief. She looked over at him and gave him a weak smile and an acknowledging nod and it was all Nick could do not to weep with joy himself. She was radiantly beautiful in a very unusual and homely way and it struck him as the most incredible thing he'd seen in a long time.

"I thought I'd lost you…" Greg's voice quivered as his words were muffled in her hair.

"I thought I'd lost you, too," she answered him, her voice nothing more than an airy whisper. "But we've found each other again."

"Sara…" Greg choked. "Sara, Sara, Sara…"

She chuckled lightly. "Greg…"

He clutched at her hospital gown with his good hand, never wanting to let her go ever again. There were no words left to say. All that mattered was their embrace, the scent of her hair, the sound of his voice. There was nothing else beyond that.

Nick slowly pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial absently, still staring at Sara and Greg as he held the phone to his ear. "Grissom? I have good news." He laughed. "Yeah, for once."


	18. Greg, Sara and Grissom

_**Author's Note:**_ I pander to my audience. Ask and you shall receive... One more chapter after this which reveals an interesting twist that will be dealt with in Phoenix. Hint as to it's title: There's one main character who hasn't had a chapter named after them yet ;o). Enjoy.

* * *

It was impossible for Grissom, Warrick, Brass and Catherine to get to the hospital fast enough. Catherine arrived first, her house being closer to Desert Palms. She raced down the hall and into the psych ward where she found Nick wiping tears from his eye as he leaned against the wall. He looked up upon her entrance and beamed at her. Catherine looked at him with wide, relieved blue eyes and threw her arms around Nick, who returned the hug gratefully. She pulled away and looked from Nick, to Sara and Greg, who were poised in a tight embrace. 

"They've been like that ever since she woke up," Nick told her. "He won't let her go."

"Is she talking?" Catherine asked.

Nick nodded. "I heard her say a few things."

Catherine's fingers flew to her lips. "Oh my God…"

There was a scrambling sound from outside as the rest of the team arrived. Grissom stepped into the room first and slowly approached Greg and Sara. Sara wrenched herself out of Greg's grasp and rose to her feet as she looked at Grissom. Greg turned his head to look at Grissom as well. Sara and Grissom stood in solemn silence a moment, simply looking at each other, before step by step Sara approached him.

Grissom tried to stand stoically, but he quivered in Sara's imposing presence. By the time she was standing right in front of him, a singular tear had made its way halfway down his cheek. It was the first one he had allowed himself to shed all week. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned her head on his shoulder without saying a word. Slowly he returned the embrace, breathing in her scent. He stroked her hair adoringly and kissed it lightly.

"I am so sorry," he whispered. "I am so sorry for what he did to you."

Sara didn't speak. She only held him tighter in reply.

Nick's eyes flew from Grissom and Sara to Greg, now alone in his wheel chair. He was staring at the floor as though studying it very intently. Warrick and Brass were watching Sara and Grissom in silence, unsure of what to do or say. Sara pulled away from Grissom and smiled weakly at him, kissing his cheek. She looked over his shoulder at Catherine, who beamed as her eyes watered.

"Hello, Catherine," Sara whispered.

Catherine choked back a sob. "I'm so glad you're back…"

"We all are," Warrick added, drawing Sara's attention to him.

She nodded. "Me too, Warrick."

"Sara…" Warrick began, looking like he was bursting at the seams to tell her something. "I just wanted to let you know that—"

But Sara held up a hand and shook her head with her eyes closed. "No," she said, her voice scratchy. "Please. No more apologies. Thank you, Warrick. For just trying."

Brass coughed awkwardly. "Sara, I…" he shook his head and laughed. "The case against you has been settled. Court ruled temporary insanity. All they ask is that you get treatment. Counseling and the like."

Sara cast her gaze downward, then looked up at Brass again, her face the perfect portrait of inscrutability betraying just a hint of confusion. "Do I still have a job?"

"We're working on it," Grissom said quickly.

She smiled gratefully up at him. "Great. Because I want to get back to work as soon as possible."

An awkward silence fell over the crowd as no one was exactly sure of what to do. The initial relief that Sara had broken out of her catatonic stupor slowly dissipated and they were left with all the overt secrets that they refused to bring up. But the elephant was in the room, and no one noticed it more than the girl who was sitting on top of it.

"Grissom…" she said slowly. "Can I talk to you?"

He nodded, and the others took the obvious hint.

"Cath," Warrick said suddenly. "It's lasagna day in the cafeteria and I skipped dinner."

"Me too," she said quickly. "Let's get down there before it's gone." Warrick took Catherine by the hand and led her out the door.

"Brass, I still have to check up on that assault victim," Nick said. "Help me talk him down, would you?"

Brass nodded and they both slipped out.

This left Greg, who wheeled forlornly towards the door. Sara flinched to see his bandaged hand grasping the wheel and pushing it.

"No," Sara said quickly, grabbing onto the handles of Greg's wheel chair. "You stop that. We can go in the hall. Besides, I need to talk to you, too. I want you nearby."

"I got nowhere to go," Greg said with a shrug.

Sara interlaced her fingers with Grissom and led him out into the hall and across it into her room where she closed the door. She almost wished she could lock it, to assure herself that she was safe inside this room, with him. She leaned against the door, her brown eyes deep and dark with twisting thoughts. She rubbed her arms to warm them.

Grissom looked like he wanted to speak but didn't know what to say. He reached out to her, then withdrew his hands and instead kept them locked at his sides. She smiled appreciatively at this. He remembered she didn't like to be touched unless she initiated it.

"You aren't good with people," she said slowly, "but you're good with me."

He smiled at her reference to their previous conversation which seemed like years ago now. "Sara, I—"

"Don't speak, Grissom," she interrupted, holding up her hands. "I'm… I'm a little confused… I need you to help me out."

Grissom pursed his lips. "Sara, if this is about you and Greg—"

"It's not," she said quickly. "It's about Sasha Volkov."

Grissom swallowed, then nodded slowly. When he spoke, it was with the tiniest tremble to his voice. "W-what do you want to know?"

"Where is he?" she asked.

Grissom opened and closed his mouth several times before he answered her question with one of his own. "What do you mean?"

She glanced away from him for a moment, then looked at him again as she continued to try and warm her arms. "How did I get here? I remember…" she closed her eyes and shuddered. "I remember th— the rape. That he… raped me… I assume that you know this… he video taped it… I just hope you didn't…" She swallowed hard, as if composing herself, though not a tear inhabited her eyes. She forced a smile. "I've never felt so vulnerable and violated in my entire life, not even with Woodward. And I remember a burning revulsion and wrath but then it's all… it's blank. I don't remember what happened, or how I got here, or why I'm here, or how long I've been asleep, and I just thought that, being Grissom, and my supervisor, and my—" She seemed to stop herself a moment before continuing. "—my boyfriend, that you would be the one who knew, the one who could tell me what happened to me and why I don't remember. When I woke up today, I felt like I hadn't seen you all in months. And by Greg's reaction, it seems like I was right. The first thing I remembered was that he was dead, that I killed him. But then I remembered his voice, telling me to wake up… And so I went into the hall, and I was just so glad to see him alive… And then Brass was talking about charges and temporary insanity… Please, Grissom… Gil, tell me what happened to me."

Of all the things Grissom had expected her to talk to him about, this hadn't occurred to him and he was caught off guard. He had been prepared for a discussion about their relationship, but not for this. He didn't want to be the one to tell her, although she was probably right to say that he was the most qualified. But did she really need to know?

"Sara…" he said slowly, offering his hand to her. She took it and he led her over to the hospital bed and they each sat down on it, side by side. Sara leaned her head on his shoulder and he kept holding her hand. "You don't need to worry about Aleksandr Volkov anymore. He's dead."

Sara didn't move from her position. "How did he die?" she asked slowly.

Grissom fought back his tears. "I… I don't know," he lied. He couldn't think of a better excuse, and he sure as hell wasn't prepared to tell her the truth.

But she knew him too well for that. "Don't protect me, Gil."

Grissom sighed, the cogs in his brain spinning. "He was… stabbed. In the heart. And other places." She didn't need to know that she was the one who had wielded the knife.

"With what?" she asked, and Grissom breathed a sigh of relief that the question hadn't been 'By whom?'

"A knife," Grissom said simply.

"Stainless steel," Sara whispered. "Cutco, black handle, serrated."

Grissom didn't say anything. He knew what was going through her head, and he didn't want to lie to her or confirm her darkest fear.

"It was the knife that he cut me lose with," Sara continued. "One he'd threatened me with. The one he used to… carve up my thigh..." She paused. "Grissom— who killed him?"

The dreaded question. Grissom swallowed. "If I had been there," he said slowly, "I would have done it myself."

"But you weren't there, were you?" Sara asked rhetorically. "And thus you just unintentionally answered my question."

"I suppose I did," Grissom replied.

Sara raised her head off his shoulder and looked at him, her eyes more mysterious than he had ever seen them. "I killed Sasha Volkov. I stabbed him to death."

Slowly and reluctantly, Grissom nodded. "You know, the Russian for 'wolf' is 'volk.' The origins of Russian names are the same as those of Europeans. They generally derived from the job they did, or a characteristic of the individual." He paused a moment and looked at Sara, trying to gauge her reaction. She turned her head and looked straight ahead of her at a spot on the wall. "He was a horrible person, Sara. One of the worst."

She nodded but didn't speak, her eyes still focused on something Grissom couldn't see, and probably would never be able to.

"Are you OK?"

"Peachy," she replied flatly.

Grissom squeezed her hand. "You're not alone, you know," he said. "You have so many people who love you, who support you, and who would do anything to take away all your scars. If there was something I could say to erase this whole hideous page… If only we could start clean again."

"It's not your place to save me, Grissom," Sara said monotonously.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked her, on the verge of begging. "I'll do anything you want, give you anything you want."

"How about space?" Sara suggested, turning to look at him.

He opened his mouth then snapped it shut and nodded in understanding. "I love you, Sara Sidle. I'll give you as much space, as much time as you need."

Sara sighed and shook her head. "I've done so much to hurt you," she whispered. "And _you're_ comforting _me_. Who comforts you, Gil Grissom? Who offers to give _you_ everything you want? Because I know it sure as hell isn't me." She leaned her head back on his shoulder and he put his arm around her.

"Sara…" Grissom began, frowning as he searched for the words. "When this whole fiasco began to unfold, I lost my faith in everything. For a long time, I just didn't understand you. You had turned into someone completely different in a matter of seconds, and it was someone I didn't know, someone I didn't particularly like. I was angry with this new you for stealing the Sara I loved and trusted away from me. It wasn't until I saw you in the hall later, after you came back from the Volkovs' house, that I realized you two were even the same person. That's when I started to break… So I ignored it. I kept working, I went to the hospital, I gave blood… And then Warrick called me, and do you know what I realized, Sara? All of that… it's all just so pointless. Because I love you so much… even if you don't return it."

"I think that's the most I've ever seen you emote, Grissom," Sara said with the hint of a smile in her voice.

Grissom leaned his head against hers and smiled a little himself. "When you almost lose the one you love, it can make you rather emotional… Can I ask you something?"

"Mm?" Sara intoned.

"When did you fall out of love with me?"

Sara didn't answer right away. "I don't think I ever really did, Grissom."

"Never did love me?"

"Never fell out of love with you."

Grissom turned to look at the top of her head. "Then what happened? Why Greg?"

Sara shrugged one shoulder half-heartedly. "I've been asking myself that same question."

"Do you love him?"

Sara straightened up so she could look Grissom straight in the eye. "I think I do."

Grissom nodded, accepting this answer. "Are you happy when you're with him?"

"The time I spend with him is the only time I can ever seem to forget everything that's wrong in my life. He makes me happier than I have felt since… Ryan Woodward."

Grissom squeezed her shoulder. "You know what we have to do, don't you?"

Sara heaved a huge sigh. "Grissom, if I knew what I had to do I would have done it by now." Grissom stood up and took both her hands in his, smiling down at her. She shook her head and chuckled at him. "What are you doing?"

He pulled her to her feet and she laughed as she stumbled into him, throwing her arms around his neck as he embraced her back. They pulled apart a little and smiled at each other, nose to nose as they leaned their foreheads together. Their smiles faded, Sara closed her eyes…

"You need to tell Greg what you just told me."

Sara's eyes snapped open and she saw Grissom staring straight at her. She swallowed and nodded. "You're not upset?"

"I'm devastated," he answered honestly. "But I'd rather see you happy with him than miserable with me."

Sara grinned at him and ran a hand through his soft silver hair. "You really _are_ absolutely perfect."

Grissom smiled diffidently and looked away.

Sara kissed his cheek before breaking away from him. She shook her head. "No one could ever love me half as good as you," she whispered.

"Go," Grissom said, still avoiding her gaze. "Before I change my mind."

She squeezed his hands before moving across the hall again to see Greg hastily turning off the TV. He spun in his chair and smiled at her. Her heart melted to see the scar which crossed his cheek and his battered and pallid form. She exhaled a long sigh. "What were you watching?"

"Huh?" Greg looked from the TV to Sara and forced his smile to grow. "Oh— Daily Show."

It was a lie, and Sara knew it, but if he didn't want to tell her it was OK with her. She closed the door behind her. "How are you doing?"

"How am _I_ doing?" he asked her, sounding incredulous. "How are _you_ doing?"

"I do believe I asked you first, Mr. Sanders."

Greg shrugged, looking down at his bandaged shoulder and hand. "I'm alive," he replied. "Which, to be honest, is more than I thought I'd be a few days ago."

Sara nodded as she walked over to him. "You thought you were going to die."

"She promised to kill me," Greg said. "And frankly, I believed her. Scary lady with a knife, they tend not to bluff you know."

Sara gave him a weak smile which didn't reach her eyes. "You were burdened with the knowledge that you were going to die," she whispered. "And meanwhile I was burdened with the knowledge that I was going to _live_."

Greg opened his mouth to speak and made a move to stand up but Sara quickly shook her head and put a finger to her lips hushing him as she rushed over to him and kneeled down in front of him.

"Don't move now," she said protectively. "I imagine you're in that chair for a reason."

"Please," Greg scoffed. "This is nothing. When Woodward submerged my feet in ice water, I was on my feet in, like, a week. The only reason I can't walk now is because my legs don't trust me anymore. My whole body is in revolt. I think I've been too hard on it."

Sara took his right hand and stroked it gently. She stared down at it as she spoke. "She kept her promise."

"What do you mean?" Greg asked, craning his neck forward to try and get her to look up at him.

"When I was… laying on that bed, when he was… talking." She swallowed a lump in her throat. This was hard for her to say. "He mentioned you. That y-you were dead."

Greg bit his tongue and paused, choosing his words carefully before replying. "But I'm not, angel. I'm not dead."

Sara laughed grimly. "Angel… it's so funny you should call me that, because you seem like a ghost to me. I thought I lost you and there was nothing else. He… he carved something into my leg and I… I haven't even been able t-to l-look at it…" She began to stutter. "And w-when he was doing it, I d-didn't care because all I could think about was… Greg was… Greg was d-dead…" She was taking in gasps of air and squeezing Greg's hand so tight he thought he'd need to amputate. But she continued. "And then he… he began to… his hands, I could feel them under my skin, and I…" Her face contorted in revulsion. "I could feel him squirming inside of me and a piece of me just died…" The disgust fled from her features as she looked over at him at last with an adoring gaze. "And then I woke up, and I was confused, and I went in the hall and I heard voices that sounded like you and Nick and I… I saw you, and I was alive again…"

Greg was laughing as he caressed her cheek. "Say no more…" he whispered. "I felt the exact same way." He kissed her forehead. "Listen, about your leg…"

"I never want to know," she said quickly. "I never ever want to know."

Greg nodded, feeling it unnecessary to point out that it was hard not to notice the scars on your own body. He knew were every single wound was on him, thanks to Woodward, and now Vera. Although Vera had been unoriginal in staking her claim, simply tracing over Woodward's marks like a hack fraud tracing over a masterful sketch and calling it her own. Not that Woodward's scars were artwork. But the only signature Vera had left on him was the scar that traversed his cheek. "Sara, I'm sorry that he—"

"No," Sara interrupted. "No, don't apologize. Can't we just… pretend this never happened? Please?"

Greg wanted so very badly to say yes, but the images on that tape were still fresh in his mind. Unable to verbalize the lie, he simply nodded his understanding and she wrapped her arms around him. He hesitated in returning the hug, unsure of where he stood with her. "Sara, if Grissom comes in… I just squared things away with him, I don't want—"

"I'm yours, Greg," she whispered, for only his ears to hear. But he couldn't have heard her right as his brow furrowed in bafflement. "I'm all yours," she repeated, as though reading his thoughts.

Slowly, his arms raised to enfold her. He rested both his hands softly on her back, careful not to squeeze her too tight. Not after what she'd been through. "What?" Even though she'd said it twice, he still couldn't believe it.

"You are the bravest person I know," she told him, and this made him laugh so hard she had to pull away from him just to stare at him in confusion and annoyance. "I'm sorry, do you find that funny?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," Greg replied, his eyes agleam. "You see… Sara…" But he couldn't seem to find the words as he stared at her as though they were so obvious he didn't even need to say them. But she just kept glaring at him so finally he shrugged. "I mean, I just would have thought that… _you_ would be the bravest person you know."

She blinked at him, not understanding. "I'm a wreck in bad situations; I fall to pieces. You're always collected, always focused, always so incredibly defiant, I just—"

Greg was still laughing. "Sara," he said suddenly. "You can shoot me, stab me, throw me down a ravine and see if I live and maybe I do, but that doesn't mean I'm brave, it means my body for some reason seems to prefer bearing the pain to just giving up and dying. If anything, I'm the most _stubborn_ person you know. Stick me in a room with ten eight-year-olds and a clown, I'll be crying my eyes out in the corner within the _hour_. But you… The way you walked into the room today, so calm and quiet, and you kneeled down and brushed _my_ tears away?! How emasculating is _that_? What I did was simply survive, Sara, but _you_ prevailed. You looked some of the darkest demons in the eyes and kicked their mother-fucking asses. Meanwhile, here's the cripple crying his goddamn eyes out in a wheel chair while the woman he'd fought so hard to protect marches in the room and comforts _him_ when she had been through so much more."

By now, Sara was laughing too. "This is why Grissom and I didn't work," she explained. "He fought so hard to shelter me, but he would never let me help him. It's a little bit of give and take, Greg. You can't protect me from everything, and sometimes you can't always stand up against your demons on your own either. I get my strength from you, Greg. Don't be afraid to take some comfort from me." She paused a moment, trying to find the words. "Greg… with Woodward… I never thanked you, for saving my life. I never knew how short of saving yours."

Greg just grinned. "Oh Sara," he said lightly. "Tonight, I think you did." He shook his head in amazement as he stroked her greasy hair. Her complexion was pasty at best, and she was worn, they both were, and he was sure that he didn't look much better, if not worse than she did. But this didn't diminish the verity of his next words. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, all sweaty and gaunt, I'm sure," she said. "You mean when I'm not in a hospital gown?"

But he shook his head. "No," he insisted. "I mean right now, in this very moment, you have never looked more beautiful."

"That's a flattering thought," Sara muttered sarcastically as she leaned her forehead against his.

"Do you know _why_ you're so gorgeous, angel?" he asked with a kooky grin.

She humored him. "Why?"

"Because for the first time in seven years," he answered, "I can finally call you mine."

And when they kissed, there were no fireworks. No music played, no one clapped, and no one whooped for joy. But no one knew the bliss that they knew in that brief, sweet moment when Greg Sanders kissed the chapped lips of Sara Sidle, the girl he could finally call his own. 


	19. Catherine

_**Author's Note:**_ Yeah, I had a lot of cries for a Sandle, so like I said... pandering to the audience. When I began this story, I had no idea if it would turn out GSR or Sandle... Haha, you guys answered that question for me. Anyways, as asked for, the chapter named after the only excluded character, Catherine. And the twist I just couldn't resist including. Phoenix should be posted sometime next week. Look out for it.

* * *

Catherine knocked on Sara's door the following morning and Sara blinked the sleep away from her eyes as she sat up in the bed. Catherine smiled at her and slowly closed the door. 

"Hey," she whispered. "Listen, Ecklie agreed to give you your job back pending my evaluation of your… mental state."

"Shouldn't a shrink do that or something?" Sara asked.

Catherine laughed. "Technically, yes," she said. "But you're already required to get counseling as part of your court agreement. He just wants me to assess if you're sharp enough to work."

"OK," Sara said. "What are we supposed to talk about?"

Catherine pulled out a pen and paper and tread carefully. "Well… We could talk about anything you like, honey."

Sara blinked at her. "You want me to talk about what happened."

It was true, Catherine was curious to know how she felt. "Oh sweetie, we don't have to talk about that if you don't want to."

Sara shook her head. She spoke with hostility and revolt. "Of course not. You have the tape to tell you what happened."

Catherine sighed. "I... It was so hard just knowing that whatever he'd done to you had turned you catatonic," she explained. "We don't have to talk about it at all, Sara. But if you do need someone to talk to... I would understand."

Sara sighed and tilted her head back. "You worked my case, didn't you?"

Catherine cast her gaze downward. "I assisted the dayshift CSI Lana Hancock. Grissom thought it would be… prudent, to have me gather the evidence from you… be the one to talk to you when you came to."

Sara smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Because you're a woman."

Catherine shrugged. "Because of a lot of things. For one, he didn't want a stranger touching you. He's protective like that. How are you holding up, hon?"

Sara took a deep breath. "I'm OK, considering… I take it you've talked to Grissom. You know it's over."

"Things don't work out," Catherine said. "But they seemed to have done with you and Greg."

"Thus far," said Sara. "You never know what the future holds." They were both quiet a moment. Sara could tell that Catherine wasn't quite sure what to say. She knew Catherine wanted her to open up about what happened. "I, uh, was wondering…" she began slowly. "You were on my case, so… So you must have taken pictures. Pictures of me."

Catherine hesitated before nodding.

Sara bit her lip. "So you saw the— the scars. On my leg." Again, Catherine nodded. "I… Well, I mean, could you just tell me—without telling me what it says… How disgusting is it? Is it terrible? Is it something hideously twisted and wrong?"

The tremor in her voice made Catherine want to burst into tears. But she swallowed her sympathy. "It was in Russian, sweetie," she said after thinking for a long time. "I couldn't understand it."

Sara nodded slowly. "You didn't have Brass translate it."

"As of right now…" Catherine improvised. "There's no need for that."

"And you saw the tape."

Catherine was quickly becoming more uncomfortable with this situation than she thought she would be. "Yes, I did."

"I don't want to know who else saw it," Sara said quietly. "I can guess." She quickly changed the subject. "So what do I need to say to get a good report?"

"I think just the fact that you're talking and smiling is proof enough for me," said Catherine with a shrug. "Then again, Ecklie should have never asked me to do this. I never thought there was anything wrong with you in the first place."

"So am I good to go back to work?"

"Yes," Catherine said with a smile. "I think you're the same Sara Sidle we know and love." She began to gather her things when Sara's voice interrupted her.

"I'm not," she said. Catherine looked up at her with empathetic eyes and waited for her to elaborate. Sara favored her with a small smile, but still her eyes were barren. "I'm stronger."

Catherine laughed with mild relief. "Yes," she said. "I think you are." She looked down at her watch. "Listen… I technically got off a few hours ago. I'm going to go home, get some sleep, watch some TV… Are you going to be OK here?"

Sara grinned at her. "I'll be fine, Catherine," she said, looking past her friend. Catherine looked over her shoulder and saw Greg with his head cocked to the side as he watched the two of them.

"You know, Catherine," Greg said with a quirky smirk. "Being in a wheel chair really is the perfect eye-level for—"

"Finish that sentence and you don't get a good morning kiss," Sara interrupted.

Catherine rolled her eyes as a surge of appreciation welled in her chest at seeing her two friends, alive and joking together once again. "Well I'll just leave you two alone then," she said with a knowing look before she left and closed the door.

* * *

Of all the people Catherine expected to call her, David Hodges wasn't on top of the list. It was four o'clock in the afternoon on a Thursday and she wasn't due to go in until much later. But she was watching the latest episode of her favorite TV show. She had Tivoed it and had been looking forward to watching it all day. With an irritated sigh, she paused it. Out of curiosity and curiosity alone did she decide to answer her phone. 

"Willows."

"Uh… Catherine?" He sounded nervous, which caught her attention right away since he was always so arrogant most of the time.

"What's the matter, Hodges?" she inquired, probingly.

"That blood sample you gave to Mia last week…" he began slowly. "What crime scene was that from again?"

What a peculiar question. "Hodges, it's clearly labeled. I don't remember every sample I give you guys…"

"Yeah, we were just wondering if there was a mix-up," Hodges continued. "I mean, with the whole fiasco with Sara and Sanders, and we've been backlogged, hence we're all working doubles and triples, so Mia asked me to look over this one for her because, um…" He sounded confused. "Well, it's the blood you took from the scene where they found Greg and… um, Catherine? It's not just blood and drugs in there."

Catherine stiffened as she realized he might have discovered something new after all. She was glad that her habitual need to process the scene might have actually paid off. "What is it, Hodges?"

"You're not gonna like this, but…" Hodges began. "Well, don't shoot the messenger."

"Just fucking spit it out!" Catherine snapped, frustrated with anticipation.

Hodges sighed audibly. "There's— trace amounts of… semen. In the blood. It, uh, matches Greg's DNA."

Catherine wasn't so much displeased as more deeply confused. "How is that possible…" she muttered to herself.

"Well," Hodges began awkwardly. "When a man and a woman find themselves aroused by each other—"

"Hodges," Catherine interrupted, refusing to tolerate the tasteless joke. "Has Vera Volkova been allowed any hospital visits do you know?"

"I'm just a lab tech," Hodges replied. "I examine the evidence, I don't keep track of medical records." He paused, then added as an afterthought, "Unless it happens to be evidence…"

"It is…" Catherine muttered to herself, standing up and grabbing her keys. "Hodges, do me a favor and tell Grissom when he gets in that I might be late, but I'm working on a case, alright?"

"I'm not your messenger boy," Hodges replied.

"Great," Catherine said. "That means I don't have to shoot you."

Hodges grumbled. "Fine, I'll tell him. You're welcome, by the way."

"Oh, and Hodges," Catherine added as an afterthought, locking the front door. "Until I have some more information, the only ones in on this semen thing are you and me. Understand?"

"Sure thing, boss," Hodges replied.

Catherine hung up as she climbed into her car. She drummed her fingers on the wheel for a moment, trying to make sense out of what Hodges had told her before hitting the road.

* * *

She sat down behind the glass. Even in an orange prison jump suit and mussed blonde hair, she didn't look intimidating. Catherine tried to remind herself that this was the woman who had brutally tortured Greg. And possibly did much, much more. 

Catherine picked up the receiver and watched Vera do the same. "Hello, Mrs. Volkova."

She leaned back in her chair and eyed Catherine warily. Catherine felt like Vera was sizing her up. "Who are you?"

"My name is Catherine Willows, from the Crime Lab," she explained. "I saw your interview. Quite a show you put on in there."

"I heard on the news that she killed my husband," Vera said coldly. "On the _news_, Ms. Willows. Do you know what that's like? You'd think someone would care to _inform_ me. I expect you're here to apologize for being so inconsiderate?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Volkova," Catherine said insincerely. "But I find that I have little compassion for you right now. I thought you weren't too fond of your husband right now anyway, considering he sold you out to the cops in order to save his own skin."

"I _loved_ my husband," Vera snarled. "He was a lying little son of a bitch, but he delighted in watching me play. He gave me the world and I? I gave him poetry."

"Poetry," Catherine scoffed. "You mean like the kind he _carved into Sara Sidle's skin_?"

Vera gasped and her eyes narrowed a moment before she replied. "I was unaware that he did that…" She laughed, though it sounded forced. "I'm almost offended. He had always been faithful in the past."

"He raped a dozen other girls," Catherine hissed angrily. "You call that being faithful?"

Vera smiled a twisted smile. "We always did that together," she replied. "As you'll note, I participated in those… 'rapes' as you call them, as well. Sex isn't infidelity, Ms. Willows. Infidelity is a violation of trust, not of carnal desire. Sasha only wrote poetry for the woman he loved."

Catherine frowned. "What are you…?"

But Vera was ten steps ahead of her as she rolled up her sleeve, revealing scars up and down her arms that spelt out a sentence in letters Catherine didn't understand. "Is that Russian?!"

Vera nodded. "Roughly translated, it says 'In phoenix flames, I burn only for you.' It sounds much prettier in Russian, but in any language the imagery is… stunning."

"It's sick is what it is," Catherine replied, wrinkling her nose in emphasis.

Vera scowled at her. "Is there something you need, Ms. Willows? A particular reason you're here?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is," Catherine said, leaning forward in her chair. "We found trace amounts of semen in Greg's blood on the floor. Care to explain where the _rest_ of it went?"

A wicked smile slowly spread across Vera Volkova's face. "You know, Ms. Willows, Sasha really did give me the world. But the one thing he could never give me was a child. He blamed me, claiming the whole thing was _my _fault. I must be barren, he said. Nonetheless, whenever another man climaxed inside of me, it was always Sasha's rule that he wear a condom. 'You can never know where they've been,' he would say. 'They could be diseased.' But really, I knew it was because he always knew the truth. I'm not barren, Ms. Willows. Aleksandr Volkov was sterile."

A chill went down Catherine's spine. She spoke through gritted teeth, too disgusted to think. "What did you do to Greg Sanders?"

"We made love," Vera whispered.

"You _raped_ him," Catherine hissed, her voice as full of repugnance as she could muster. "You twisted, conniving little—"

"Please, Ms. Willows, you're embarrassing me," Vera interrupted. She looked down and began to rub her stomach tenderly. "It is true, he wasn't exactly aware of what was going on. But biology did most of the work for me. Men are so much easier to control when you know how. And if Sasha gave Sara poetry…" She looked up at Catherine, her eyes sparkling with malignance. "… Then you could say that Greg gave me the world."

Catherine stood up quickly and dropped the phone as she glared at Vera Volkova through the glass. Vera simply returned her gaze with cold blue eyes. Vera pointed to the receiver in her hand. She had more to say to Catherine. For a moment, Catherine wondered if she really wanted to hear it. Slowly, she took her seat again, deciding that she did want to hear it. "I have nothing more to say to you," she said.

"I just have one question, I'll be brief," Vera assured her. Catherine narrowed her eyes and Vera smiled. "On average, how much money do you think Greg Sanders makes a year? I want to know if he'll be able to support his child."

Catherine clutched the phone hard to her ear. "You raped him," she growled. "You will have no contact with him. You will not tell him about anything concerning what you did to him. And by all means he will _never_ know that the child you carry is his. Are we clear?"

"You can't keep a father from his child," Vera said into the phone.

"I can get a court order," Catherine replied.

"Won't you need Greg for that?" Vera pointed out in a sing-song voice.

"Not necessarily," Catherine half-lied. If she wanted to file a restraining order, she would need a plaintiff. But she doubted Greg would object. It's not like he needed another reason to keep Vera Volkova away from him.

"He has a right to know," Vera whispered.

"You have no right to tell him," Catherine replied.

"Don't you want to add it to the charges against me?" Vera asked. "Don't you want _justice_?"

"Rape is already on your long list of charges, Vera," Catherine replied, calmly. "At this point, one more won't tip the scale. And what Greg doesn't know I refuse to let hurt him."

"What are you going to give me?" Vera asked, still in a light sing-song voice.

Catherine realized she wanted something. "What are you trying to pull here, Vera?"

"I'm on death row," Vera said, getting straight to the point. "Get me off of it."

"I don't have the power to do that," said Catherine, helplessly.

"Then I guess we're at an impasse," Vera replied.

Catherine bit her lip. "Please," she said at last, running out of options. "I'll do what I can, I'll pull a few strings. I… may know a few people who can help. But if he ever finds out what you did to him, I swear to God, Vera, I'll make damn sure that your execution date is the next day, whether that child is still inside you or not."

Vera seemed to think for a long time. "I like you… _Catherine_. You remind me of myself. You're tenacious and clever. You fight your own battles."

As much as the thought sickened Catherine, she knew that she had finally found her leverage. "Do we have a deal?"

"He will never know," Vera promised.

"Good," Catherine said.

"So long as my execution date is far off," Vera added.

Catherine hesitated. She knew it was in Greg's best interest to make sure that Vera's execution wasn't scheduled for a very long time. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Volkova," Catherine said formally as she rose to her feet.

"Please," said Vera, doing the same. "Thank _you_."

Catherine hung up the phone and watched as the guards led Vera out of the visitor's room. As she left the prison, she pulled out her phone and called Hodges.

"Yes, Catherine?"

"The evidence you found," Catherine said. "It was contaminated."

"Um… no, I don't think—"

"It was sitting on your table for a week," Catherine explained. "It was mixed in Greg's blood, the DNA you extracted was from that, not the semen."

"Catherine, you know as well as I do that what you're saying is highly improb—"

"Listen to me, Hodges," Catherine said carefully as she climbed in her car. "I'm not asking you to do anything except put your results in a file and hand that file to me where I'll retire it because the Vera Volkova case is closed. Do you understand?"

"I guess… you're the boss, boss," Hodges said slowly. "I take it you still don't want me to tell anyone about it?"

"You're a smart guy, Hodges," Catherine said with a smile.

"There's something _you're_ not telling _me_, isn't there?"

"I gotta go Hodges," Catherine said as she backed out of the lot. "I'm going into a tunnel, you're breaking up."

"Oh please, I've heard that excuse a thous—" But Catherine hung up before he could get it out. When she reached the lab, she would take Hodges' evidence and put it away. She couldn't in her right mind destroy it; it was evidence after all. But no one had to see it. The case had been closed.

She strode down the hallway and to the trace lab where Hodges handed her the file without even looking up from the microscope. She plucked it from his hand and spun on her heal, walking towards the records room where she could hide it away. She only prayed to God that Greg wouldn't get curious and dig up his file. As a precaution, she sealed it and marked it CLASSIFIED before slipping it into the box.

As she put the box back on the shelf she saw the one next to it and hesitated a moment. VOLKOV, A. She took the top off and pulled out the file containing the photos she had taken of Sara after she had been recovered. She found the photos depicting the scars on Sara's lower stomach and top of her thigh. The sentence moved all the way down to her knee.

It wasn't in Russian. She had lied to Sara about that, but Sara would figure that out eventually when she mustered up enough courage to read the "poem" Sasha had written her. Catherine laid out the photos so they were in the appropriate word order, as she displayed Sara's right leg out in front of her. What Sara may not have realized is that unlike Vera's arm, Sara's leg provided two lines, parallel to each other. Catherine sighed and shook her head as she combined the line on Vera's arm to the lines on Sara's leg.

_But like a phoenix, my love is reborn in you  
Your fiery blood will eternally bring me to life again. _

He had carved himself into her. Even in death, he wouldn't let her out of his slimy grip. As Catherine gathered the photos and put them in the file and back into the box, she silently hoped that Sara's scars healed as completely as possible before she decided to read them.

The son of a bitch didn't deserve to have the satisfaction of terrifying her in death. Just like his wife didn't deserve to hold a child conceived in deceit over Greg's head. Catherine knew the war against the Volkovs wasn't over. But so long as Vera kept her silence, and so long as Sara and Greg talked to their assigned therapist and supported each other, they would at least have a very long-lasting cease-fire.

As she turned off the lights in the record room, Catherine silently hoped that it would last indefinitely.

**To Be Continued**


End file.
